by Jack Murray
He stared out the window and tried to think through what he could do. The more he thought about his situation, the more hopeless it seemed. His mind raged against the unfairness or was it guilt? First Mary and now Olly. Both facing death because they knew him. Each swollen second passed like an eternity, each painful beat of his heart pounded a reminder of his responsibility.
A knock at the door awoke him from the anguished trance. A moment later Miller appeared, ‘Sir, there are a couple of men here to see you.’
Kit stood up and was greeted by two middle-aged men. One of them, he recognised vaguely. His hair was grey at the sides, but his clean-shaven face gave a more youthful appearance. This was the Commissioner of the Police for the Metropolis, Sir Nevil Macready.
‘Sir Nevil,’ said Kit before anyone could speak. He held his hand out.
‘Lord Aston, I’m flattered you remember me. May I introduce Chief Inspector Jellicoe from Scotland Yard.’
Kit and Jellicoe shook hands, ‘Pleased to meet you Chief Inspector, I’ve heard many good things about you from mutual friends.’
‘You’re very kind Lord Aston,’ replied the Chief Inspector. Despite his grave appearance, Kit’s comment had pleased him, and he reddened slightly in embarrassment.
‘Kit, I know this is a horrible time of night to call on anyone,’ said Macready but would you care to join us for a meeting in Whitehall? I’m sure you can guess the subject.’
-
Twenty minutes later, their car drove along King Charles street before pulling up outside a large grey-white building: Britain’s Foreign Office. The three men walked up the steps and carried on through Dunbar Court with its impressive marble flooring and Doric columns. They went through a door that led to a small staircase. Moments later Kit found himself in a small reception area and then a large, wood-panelled office. Kit and Sir Nevil sat down after being introduced to the man behind the desk. Jellicoe was not introduced and remained standing, much to Kit’s surprise.
The man behind the desk looked grave. On the few occasions Kit had met him previously, he had found George Curzon, 1st Earl Curzon of Kedleston, former Viceroy of India and now the, recently appointed, Foreign Secretary for His Majesty’s Government, to be a pompous bore. For once, though, he had a good reason to be sombre. He rubbed the side of his temple and exhaled slowly.
‘Thank you Kit for giving us your time tonight and thank you also for helping us understand better the source of these vile murders. I don’t have to tell you how serious this matter is.’
‘No Foreign Secretary, I can see the potential ramifications.’
There was silence in the office for a few moments. Although barely on nodding acquaintance, Kit knew Curzon well enough to know that the Foreign Secretary liked long moments of reflection in his conversations before pontificating. Often at length. Kit settled down for a long evening.
‘The murder of British subjects by a foreign power on our own soil is clearly very serious. That this foreign power appears to be the Russian government adds an additional level of complication. They deny it of course, and we have no proof other than the letters and the possible identification of one Cheka agent. However, there are many aspects of these attacks that are, to say the least, odd.’
Kit nodded; this had been on his mind also. As arrogant as he found Curzon, Kit did not doubt for a moment that he had a first-class mind.
‘I agree sir. It made no sense to me why they should choose such a public method for killing and then link it so obviously to the chess match.’
Curzon looked pointedly at the two policemen beside Kit and said sardonically, ‘Not so obvious to the police, Kit.’
Kit felt sorry for the two policemen. He made a promise to himself to apologise to them afterwards and be more circumspect in his use of language on the handling of the case.
‘What are your thoughts on this matter Lord Aston?’ asked Macready.
‘Well, Sir Nevil, I think we need more proof before we should point the finger towards Russia. We need to communicate to the press on this to stop them creating a febrile atmosphere. On the specific matter of Russian involvement, I remember from my time in Russia before the revolution, Petrograd was chock-a-bloc with revolutionary factions. Groups would form, merge, disband, kill each other. It was chaos. My point is, there are still many groups in Russia and abroad who would happily see the Bolsheviks ousted. You’ll know more about this than I, but it could also be a new theatre in the Russian Civil War. The Russian theatre is nearing an end if what I hear is true. Perhaps Comintern are taking the attack to those who have overtly or tacitly supported the Whites.’
Curzon looked at Macready for a response.
‘You believe these murders are an attempt to provoke His Majesty’s Government into a response?’ asked Macready.
‘Possibly sir, if they really have been initiated by the Bolsheviks,’ responded Kit.
‘In which case they are a warning,’ finished Curzon.
‘Correct, Foreign Secretary, or perhaps, revenge for our involvement in Russia over the last few years,’ said Kit.
‘I think the less said about this, the better, Kit. As it stands, we need to find out the truth and soon. There are, shall we say, a few ministers in the government who favour a robust approach to this situation. The longer this matter remains unresolved, the stronger their hand in pushing through some form of renewed military intervention. This time it won’t be by proxy. I think we all share a horror at this prospect.’
Kit and Macready, if not Jellicoe, recognised the reference to Curzon’s former friend, Winston Churchill. Both nodded, Kit glanced at Macready. He knew Macready had seen active service during the War. He would understand.
Macready turned his attention to Jellicoe, who had remained silent during the meeting.
‘Perhaps, Foreign Secretary, we should hear what Chief Inspector Jellicoe has to say. He is heading up the investigation of these horrible murders. What has your interrogation of Serov uncovered?’
Kit was shocked that Serov had been arrested, this was news to him. He looked at Jellicoe, fascinated to learn more about his opponent.
‘Serov is either a very accomplished actor or he genuinely has no idea of what he’s involved in.’
‘Which is it, Jellicoe?’ asked Curzon, rather curtly, to Kit’s mind.
‘The latter Foreign Secretary.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly sir, our inquiries have shown that he was not in the vicinity of the murders when they are known to have taken place. In fact, he was not in the country when, we believe, Lord Lake was kidnapped. Secondly, I have it on good authority from people that we know who have more in-depth knowledge of the situation in Russia,’ he glanced slyly at Kit, which brought a smile to both him and Macready, ‘that Serov was not known to be an agent of Cheka. He is known to be a supporter of the Bolsheviks, but I understand he arrived somewhat late to the party, so to speak.’
Despite the situation, Kit found himself smiling at Jellicoe, and noted Macready’s eyes twinkling also. He liked Jellicoe and all the more because he clearly was getting beneath the skin of portentous Foreign Secretary, who was obviously not amused. Jellicoe continued before Curzon could voice his disapproval.
‘Finally, sir, I have over twenty years of experience in interviewing suspects. After a while, you develop a nose for it. I can’t describe it exactly, but you have a sense if a man is capable of planning, commissioning, or undertaking personally, murder. This man isn’t a murderer. He’s a dupe. Plain and simple.’
Once again Kit found himself nodding in agreement. This was his opinion. Curzon noticed this also.
‘You agree with this assessment?’ he asked.
‘Clearly, I do not have access to the evidence the Chief Inspector has, but I’ve met Serov before. He’s a socialist, yes. He’s certainly one of the most arrogant men I’ve met.’
Kit pondered for a moment if Serov was more arrogant than Curzon. It was close. On balance he had to give it to th
e British aristocrat as Serov could, at least, claim to be one of the among the top five exponents of the most cerebral game on earth.
‘But I would concur with the Chief Inspector, he’s no murderer,’ added Kit quickly.
Curzon nodded unhappily.
‘So, we release him then? And what of this chess match? You play tomorrow?’
It was Jellicoe who spoke.
‘I believe it should continue,’ said Jellicoe glancing at Macready. Kit noticed the exchange of looks and concluded they had agreed their answer.
Curzon appeared to ignore Jellicoe and looked at Macready, ‘Why?’
A shadow of irritation passed over Macready’s eyes but answered calmly, ‘It will buy us more time to find Lord Lake, Foreign Secretary. In the meantime, we have circulated likenesses of the two men we believe responsible for these ghastly acts.’
Macready nodded to Jellicoe. The Chief Inspector fished out of his leather bag, two Photostats. Each contained an artist’s impression of the two men mentioned by Macready. This was the first time Kit had seen the two men. He looked intently at both. One of the men seemed familiar, he wore glasses and had a moustache. Noticing his reaction, Jellicoe said, ‘We believe this is Bergmann. Almost certainly an alias. According to Serov, he’s not Russian but Latvian.’
‘Has Serov told you much?’
‘Not really, we’ve had more from Peel, frankly,’ admitted Jellicoe. ‘Serov is somewhat angry at his treatment and unhelpful, to say the least.’
This made Kit look up sharply at Jellicoe which, in turn, made Jellicoe smile.
‘No Lord Aston, Mr Serov is not under any duress, but he’s clearly displeased at being held in a cell. He was also somewhat hungover, sir. The hotel told us that he was on something of a bender the previous evening.’
Kit smiled, despite himself. It also made him wonder what would have prompted the, usually serious-minded, Russian to cut loose in such a manner.
Macready added to Jellicoe’s comments before the Foreign Secretary could weigh in, ‘We‘ll release him tomorrow morning. We’re not pressing charges.’
Kit smiled for a moment as Fiona Lawrence came into his mind. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, he thought.
‘Why not just keep him in the cell? Perhaps you could bring him to the venue tomorrow afternoon.’
Macready stared at Kit for a moment puzzled by this suggestion. Kit remained silent but with a half-smile.
‘So, you wish him to remain in a prison cell up until you resume your match?’
Kit nodded.
‘Not really cricket, is it?’ said Macready, somewhat taken aback.
‘Nor is murder, Commissioner,’ interjected Curzon. ‘I agree, lock him up and starve him if you wish. I don’t care. Gentlemen, I think we’re finished for this evening.’
‘Have you any other photostats, Chief Inspector?’ asked Kit as they left the Foreign Office building in Whitehall.
‘Yes sir,’ replied Jellicoe and handed Kit several more photostats. ‘May I ask why you need them?’
‘I know someone that can help us,’ smiled Kit. His mood had lifted considerably since earlier in the evening. He felt reassured by the solid, straight talking policeman. Jellicoe looked archly at Kit.
‘Would you mind if I accompanied you to meet this person. It’d be better if our efforts are coordinated.’
Macready looked at the two men, ‘I shall leave you gentlemen to the search. Good hunting.’
-
The police car took Kit and Jellicoe to an apartment building in South Kensington. The white walled apartments had a Palladian entrance. Kit looked with amusement at Jellicoe.
‘How the other half live, Chief Inspector?’
Kit received an amused nod by way of reply. The door opened an elderly man led Kit and Jellicoe up one flight of stairs to a wide corridor. The first door was already open, and Kit walked in followed by Jellicoe. A few minutes later the Chief Inspector was standing before the former Prime Minister of Russia, Alexander Kerensky.
After introductions were made, the three men sat down, and Kit briefly summarised the meeting he and Jellicoe had left with the Foreign Secretary and the Commissioner of Police. Kerensky looked grave as he listened to Kit’s account of the murders and the kidnapping of their mutual friend, Lord Lake.
‘I hate these men, Kit, with all my heart, but this is fantastical. Murders in Britain, kidnapping and all connected to a chess match? I’ve never heard of such things. Can we be sure it’s the Bolsheviks?’
‘It’s highly likely, Alexander. Either this was a direct act by the Russian state against our country or the Russian government’s lost control of its agents. Daniels has been,’ said Kit indicating one of the Photostats, ‘identified as Cheka. Bergmann, we know nothing of.’
Kerensky looked at the two Photostats. He spent a little more time scrutinising Bergmann.
‘Yes,’ said Kit, reading his mind, ‘pity about the hat. There’s something about him.’
Kerensky nodded, then regarded the two men, ‘So what do you need from me, gentlemen?’
Jellicoe was happy to get down to business, ‘I understand from Lord Aston that you’ve a great many contacts in the ex-patriot Russian community, particularly in North London.’
Kerensky smiled but only nodded.
Jellicoe continued, ‘We lack the resource to go door to door with these artist impressions. Can we call on your help?’
‘Of course, Chief Inspector. But do you really believe these men are likely to be found in Little Russia?’ replied Kerensky.
‘It’s possible Prime Minister. We call it hiding in plain sight,’ replied Jellicoe.
Kerensky smiled, ‘Thank you Chief Inspector but please call me Alexander, you’re probably aware but someone else is running my country now.’
The meeting concluded with Kerensky announcing his intention to leave right away to distribute the likenesses to friends in the ex-patriot community in Haringey.
‘If they are in Little Russia, we’ll know soon, gentlemen,’ concluded Kerensky.
Kit was not sure if this raised his hopes but, in the absence of any other way forward, it gave him a sense of momentum.
‘I hope so, Alexander, for Olly’s sake.’
-
Around the same time as Kit and the Chief Inspector were meeting with Kerensky, a small lorry drove along Hampton Court Road. It stopped at a secluded mews at the side of the main entrance.
Kopel climbed out of the cabin and walked over to a security guard who had come out to greet them. Both Kopel and the security guard held clipboards. When dealing with petty officialdom, Kopel had two steadfast principles: take the high hand and carry a clip board. In an authoritative English accent, which impressed even Daniels, he quickly got to grips with the security guard blocking the entrance of the lorry.
Cedric Barnes was a twenty-seven-year veteran of security work. Tall but slight, his eyes were bovine brown. A smile was rarely near his face. This combination of seriousness and unapologetic stupidity had proved excellent credentials for the security work that had been his life.
‘You’re Barnes, aren’t you?’ said Kopel.
This took Barnes by surprise, for he was, indeed Barnes. In the twenty-seven years of employment in the security sector, no one had ever addressed him directly by name, or indeed, so peremptorily. He bristled but, at this moment, couldn’t be sure of who he was dealing with.
‘Yes sir,’ replied Barnes, immediately regretting the use of sir.
‘Good, good, come over here will you,’ continued Kopel, affecting an impeccable English mien, somewhere between arrogance with and outright contempt for, the lower orders.
To the credit of Barnes, years of being a petty official meant he was not easily cowed, even by his superiors. It was one of the perks of an, otherwise, low paid job that he could use his position to stand up to authority.
‘You can’t bring this thing,’ said Barnes, indicating the lorry, ‘in here. Your name’s
not on the list.’
Barnes felt a stab in his stomach, as he realised, he had not actually checked the manifest. He hoped his assertion was true or the battle would be lost immediately. Kopel was unperturbed and said in an off-hand manner.
‘Show me.’
Barnes handed him the manifest, praying he was right. Kopel made a great show of reading through the contents of the clipboard.
‘This is ridiculous, we need to speak to Hesketh immediately, Barnes. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. This is intolerable.’
To give someone a piece of your mind, in England, was the penultimate indication of dissatisfaction, just behind disembowelling your enemy. Barnes was now on the back foot, and he knew it. The man before him was clearly acquainted with Samuel Hesketh, the Palace manager. This man, he acknowledged, not only exuded authority there was also a growing rage discernible in his eyes, burning like an inferno. Barnes quickly concluded that Hesketh would not be overjoyed with him if he continued to block the delivery. He changed tack.
‘Mr Hesketh left hours ago. I’m not sure I can disturb him at this time of night.’
Kopel glared at Barnes, causing him to cower internally. This was getting out of hand. He needed to regain some sort of control.
‘What exactly, are you delivering?’
‘What do you mean by exactly? Who do you think you are dealing with exactly, my man? I shall have a word with Hesketh about you.’
Daniels flinched. He was worried that Kopel was overplaying his hand. Daniels wasn’t the only one flinching from the onslaught. Barnes was beginning to wilt under the impact also. He attempted one last sally.
‘I need to check all deliveries,’ said Barnes before adding, ‘sir.’
Kopel could smell victory and mollified his tone. He nodded to Daniels, who also stepped down from the cabin. Daniels went around to the back of the lorry and opened it up. Inside was, to the eyes of the security man, a coffin.
‘What does this box contain?’ asked Barnes.
