by Jack Murray
-
Melbury Road runs from Kensington High Street along the western perimeter of Holland Park. Dozens of red brick Victorian houses and apartments lined each side of the street. Few realised, and even fewer would have welcomed, the fact that it was home to Britain’s embryonic Secret Intelligence Service, led by the shadowy figure of Mansfield Cumming, otherwise known as ‘C’.
It was in this highly suburban environment that Aldric ‘Spunky’ Stevens plied his trade. His office overlooked Holland Park, which was a relative compensation for having to move away from the centre of London. The compensation being the opportunity to enjoy the endless procession of young ladies promenading in the park. However, those days were over for the time being. The weather had turned a little inclement which discouraged the daily beauty parade, and now he only had eyes, well one eye, for the attractive young secretary to ‘C’, Dawn.
It was Dawn who led Kit up to Spunky’s office following their arrangement the previous day. After Dawn had left the two men alone, Spunky indicated to Kit not to say anything.
‘Wonderful girl, Dawn. Without her, I’m convinced this place would fall apart. Keeps the old man on his toes,’ said Spunky a little too loudly.
Kit nodded in understanding, ‘Yes, clearly very efficient.’
Spunky leaned forward and stage whispered, ‘Keeps more than the old man on his toes, I can tell you.’
Kit closed his eyes and held his palms up thereby missing a series of hand gestures from Spunky unlikely to be found in any mime artist’s repertoire unless they were French. This made Spunky chortle even more. When Kit raised the subject of Leon Daniels, though, the atmosphere changed.
‘I saw the Russian chap, Daniels, yesterday.’
‘So, I gather. What brought you out there?’
‘I have to say Spunky, he was in a pretty poor state,’ replied Kit, ignoring the question.
‘He’ll be in an even worse one when he’s dangling at the end of a rope,’ pointed out Spunky.
‘Yes, no doubt, but this is the law of the land, whatever one may think of it. However, I’m pretty sure that the same law does not endorse torture.’
‘No,’ conceded Spunky, ‘But we both know it goes on. And don’t tell me you had no idea what his fate would be.’
‘Seeing it first-hand is another thing. It’s inhuman. Torture makes us no better than the people we’re supposed to be defending the country against.
‘Enhanced interrogation, old boy,’ said Spunky by way of correction, ‘is necessary. Who knows what other covert cells Russia has operating in this country? We must be able to defend ourselves. The Bolsheviks aren’t playing by Queensbury rules, y’know. They’ve killed people in our country before and they’ll do it again. And again. You may not like it, but it won’t change anytime soon.
‘Well, I don’t like it, Spunky. It’s not…’
‘Cricket?’ said Spunky with one eyebrow raised.
‘No, definitely not cricket. Nor is it what I believe this country should stand for. That probably makes me a fool but there you have it.’
‘Anyway, on a happier note, your unscheduled appearance may have had an impact,’ said Spunky.
Kit looked surprised and said, ‘Really? How so?’
‘Do you still have that old photograph of us by the lake with you?’ asked Spunky. Kit retrieved it and handed it to Spunky, who smiled nostalgically. ‘A bit sentimental of you to keep it in your wallet.’
‘Yes, I know, but it was such a wonderful time. I looked at it often when I was in France. It kept me sane, I think. To know there was another world out there that had sunshine and friends and possibilities.’
Spunky handed it back and said, ‘And ladies. Anyway, I think it fairly convinced Daniels that Olly had hoodwinked him. He began to talk about Olly and the other chap Fechin. You were right, they did bump him off. Incompetence. Olly ordered it along with the other killings. Daniels claims not to know why, which I believe, incidentally. He’s just a foot soldier.’
‘And Roger?’
‘I think Daniels has pretty much confirmed he was duped by Roger into thinking he was working in a covert cell in Britain. He fed Roger a lot about the way Cheka were set up in a broad sense, but he had no knowledge of other cells working in the country.’
‘And the killings? What was Roger’s involvement in those?
‘He was not involved apparently. He handed over the reins to Olly who was the prime instigator of what happened.’
Kit nodded and felt a wave of sadness engulf him. Sadness for the loss of his former commanding officer, sadness for the circumstances that led to his death, sadness for not seeing that Ratcliffe had slowly been driven mad by years of leading a double life. A life that led him to be unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy. He wondered if such a fate befell all those who spent their lives undercover, not just acting but becoming the person they had to portray to the outside world. He was glad to be out of it.
The conversation moved off the recent case. Kit had the feeling his friend was probing him, indirectly, about why he had gone to the prison. As there was no reason, he could see not to admit it, he confirmed the original purpose of the visit had been to see the Phantom.
‘Why is the Phantom in a special prison used by our people?’ asked Kit.
Spunky smiled and pointed out, ‘He’s the Phantom. He’d walk out of any other prison, old boy. Why the interest in Hadleigh?’
Kit told him about the evening of the theft, on the eve of the London Conference.
‘You were there?’ exclaimed Spunky, ‘I’m very impressed. So, Jellicoe’s back on the case, then?’ asked Spunky.
‘Looks like it. He caught Hadleigh originally if you remember.’
Spunky shook his and said, ‘Had no idea. Stout man, obviously.’
Kit smiled. This was the very highest of praise, just one step behind being a good egg. Or was it the other way around? Kit could never remember.
‘Yes, he’s good. He has a young sergeant with him now who appears to be his protégé,’ added Kit.
‘Well, the more the better, I say. Fewer criminals, means more men in prison which means more girls at a loose end, grateful for a bit of Stevens…’
Kit put his palms up to stop Spunky in mid flow, lest his eloquence take him towards schoolboy alliteration and oblique references to his undoubted credentials for the fairer sex. This intervention managed to bring Spunky back on subject.
‘What’s the latest on the conference?’ asked Kit.
‘Well, I’m not sitting in the room obviously. My role is more akin to eavesdropping in the corridors of power, or peace in this case. Usual story, bit like Paris. Us, the Frenchies and the Italians all have an agenda in the Middle East which is based purely on our respective national interests. Well, the Italians probably don’t care. I think they’re on holiday,’ added Spunky before continuing, ‘But it’s probably not in the long-term interests of the region.’
‘What do we want?’ asked Kit.
‘Well, as long as we can protect our oil interests in Mosul, we’re of a mind to leave the rest to the French and the Americans to sort out, particularly Constantinople. We’d be happy for them to do our dirty work in keeping seaways open, means easier access to India.’
‘What do the French want?’
‘What does any Frenchman want?’ This appeared to amuse Spunky immensely before he added in a more serious tone, ‘They’ve finally woken up to the potential of the region for oil. It took them long enough. Winston and the rest have been on this like a rat through cheese for a long time now.’
‘There were a lot of protesters outside I noticed,’ said Kit.
Spunky nodded and said, ‘The region is a powder keg of different ethnic and religious groups. Still, better they’re all together in one place, I say.
‘Where are you and Jellicoe with the case?’ asked Spunky, returning to the subject of the Phantom.
‘I’m no longer on it, insofar as I was ever a part o
f it. It’s a police matter,’ said Kit, a little more ruefully than he would have liked.
Spunky smiled sympathetically, ‘Want me to pull a few strings, bloodhound?’
‘No, I want to spend the time with Mary, not chasing after criminals. After what she’s been through, I think we need to be together.’
-
On this matter Mary and Kit were not quite as one. The extraordinary activity of Caroline Hadleigh in the morning had duly been reported to the other two members of the investigative team.
Mary had related how her tracking of Caroline had nearly gone awry once more. Having almost lost her quarry, Mary had been forced to demonstrate why she had been the sprint champion at her school for six years, literally, on the trot, with a mad dash that had by turns, nearly knocked an old gentleman into the road, resulted in a near collision with a man on a bicycle and a possible world record in the sixty-yard dash.
She’d eventually caught Caroline as she turned into Sloane Gardens. Making a note of the house number, she waited for twenty minutes for Caroline to reappear before dark clouds suggested the best plan was shelter and warmth.
‘We’ll have to get you into that house, Mary,’ said Agatha when Mary had finished.
‘How do you propose I do that? As a maid? And what do I tell Kit? I mean he and I have plans over the next few days,’ pointed out Mary.
‘You’ll have to bail out, I’m afraid. No option. Needs must and all that.’
Mary looked troubled by this idea. ‘I see that but what shall I say? Don’t forget, it’s St Valentine’s Day. I imagine my intended would be keen that we spend it together. Besides which, I’m not keen on lying to Kit. It wouldn’t exactly set the right precedent for our future together.’
‘Oh nonsense, a good marriage is built on deception. What would be the point of trust otherwise?’ said Agatha, which settled the matter in her mind, if not entirely in Mary’s.
Betty glanced askance at Agatha. Mary merely frowned and then a thought occurred to her, ‘We need a credible excuse. We don’t know how long will be needed.’
‘Good point and I think I may have a solution that fulfils both your need not to lie to Christopher and allows us time to put together our case.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Mary.
‘If you remember, my dear,’ said Agatha, leaning forward licking her lips, ‘I laid the foundations already by suggesting Esther was unwell. I think you should ask Esther to extend her stay in Sussex claiming a fictitious illness. You, of course, shall visit to provide nursing. I seem to recall, young lady, you have some experience in such matters.’
Mary smiled sheepishly at Agatha.
Betty continued where Agatha had left off, ‘You should see Kit today as planned. Anything otherwise on St Valentine’s Day will arouse suspicion. Break the news about Esther. In the meantime, Agatha and I will apply ourselves with assiduity to securing you a position in the household.’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘Leave that to us,’ said Betty with a surprising degree of confidence.
At that moment Fish appeared in the room. He looked somewhat ill at ease. Agatha looked up at him and said, ‘Well come on, Fish, out with it. We’re all friends here, I’m sure.’
‘There’s a gentleman to see Miss Simpson. A police constable.’
Mary eyed the two elderly women. Neither looked surprised so much as guilty. Agatha glanced at Betty.
‘Ahh, they did say they would pay us a visit, dear,’ said Agatha to Betty, and then addressing Mary she added, ‘I forgot to mention. Our trip in the car was not without incident.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mary, her brow furrowing.
‘Well, Betty managed to reach Eaton Square without any problems. However, it was rather a long wait,’ said Agatha.
‘So, I brought along something to sustain us,’ continued Betty. “I thought that some brandy would do the trick. The car was rather cold.’
‘It did more than the trick dear, you were one over the eight,’ admonished Agatha, although not unkindly. ‘If you hadn’t stumbled at the young man’s feet, he’d never have known.’
‘Yes, it was unfortunate timing, I grant you. Still, the young policeman was remarkably good about it. Clearly recognised breeding when he saw it.’
‘He clearly recognised you were too whiffled to drive if you ask me.’
Betty ignored Agatha’s jibe and continued, ‘Anyway, he kindly brought us home.’
‘The young policeman?’ asked Mary, a smile growing on her face. The two ladies had withheld this incident in their brief update earlier. ‘Is there anything else you haven’t told me,’ continued Mary in the manner of a schoolmistress.
Betty seemed oblivious to the situation, but it was clear that Agatha was somewhat embarrassed that they had been found out.
‘Well, this is the interesting part of the story, Mary,’ said Betty, ‘The young detective had just come from Caroline Hadleigh’s house.’
Mary was stunned by this news, ‘But this changes things somewhat. If they’re investigating Caroline, then should we be interfering in a police matter?’
‘That’s the point, Mary,’ replied Agatha, ‘The way he said goodbye to her on the doorstep suggested to me that either investigation techniques have changed or…’
‘Caroline Hadleigh’s sweetheart is a detective,’ concluded Betty, ‘Excuse me, hello constable. ‘Betty stood up to receive the policeman, who was standing at the dining room door.
Agatha looked at Mary and said gravely in a stage whisper, ‘I don’t think Christopher really needs to know of this unfortunate incident, Mary. I don’t want him to think Betty a bad influence.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Mary with as straight a face as she could manage under the circumstances.
Chapter 13
February 15th, 1920: London
Early morning. It was still dagger-dark. The sun would not rise for another three hours. Sheets of sleet curved craftily into the faces of the workers as they left through the factory gate. Each cold drop stinging their faces beat a reminder of their place in life. A lorry went past them, narrowly avoiding a puddle by the side of the pavement. This brought up an ironic laugh for those who had narrowly escaped a soaking.
Ryan turned and watched the lorry pass. It turned into the factory, causing workers to skip out of the way. A few grumbled in appropriately undiplomatic language. The driver didn’t look like he was in a mood to stop for anything least of all an inattentive pedestrian.
‘Unusual,’ commented Ryan.
‘What?’ asked Abbott.
‘The lorry. Deliveries and collections are usually during the day, aren’t they?’ observed Ryan.
‘Who knows?’ replied Abbott in his curious mid-European accent. He looked at Ryan with his big moon eyes, a trace of irritation, ‘You shouldn’t worry about these things.’
The two men, for better or worse, were work mates. Ryan would not have chosen Abbott nor, he suspected, would Abbott have chosen him. But they were bound together now, after only a few nights, by their secret.
Ryan had thought about Abbott’s idea. Stealing cigarettes and selling them on the black market was hardly lucrative but it was possible to make some money. Each created hidden compartments in their trousers and shirts. Each evening, the plan was for Ryan to hand over their swag and Abbott would sell it wherever he could. They split the profits sixty-five, thirty-five in favour of Abbott. Ryan was relaxed about this. Although both men shared the risk, Ryan did not have the wherewithal for selling. They hurried to a building which provided a degree of shelter against the weather.
‘Quickly,’ ordered Abbott, looking about nervously.
Ryan emptied his pockets and handed over close to one hundred cigarettes. Enough to make some money but not so many to raise suspicion. Swiping so many cigarettes over eight hours was not so difficult, they’d found.
‘That’s it,’ said Ryan, checking his pockets one last time.
They went their se
parate ways into the darkness.
-
Harry Miller walked into Kit’s room and opened the curtains. Outside the sky was grey and rain fell with a depressing swagger, bouncing off the street, saturating the air and splashing anyone unwise enough to be outside defended inadequately by an umbrella.
‘What’s it like?’ asked Kit from a underneath pre-Cambrian number of blanket layers.
‘Wet. Whether its sleet or rain, it’s hard to tell, sir,’ replied Harry placing a cup of tea by Kit’s bedside table.
Kit finally surfaced and had a sip of the tea. He wasn’t quite sure what the day held for him. Mary had told him the previous evening that she was going to Sussex to tend Esther. The prospect of her leaving, if only for a few days, was grim indeed. The last couple of weeks since her recovery had been the happiest of Kit’s life.
‘How was your evening off?’ asked Kit with a grin.
Without looking at Kit, Miller removed a tweed suit from the wardrobe and placed a recently ironed shirt with it. He glanced at Kit and replied, ‘Oh, it was a pleasant evening, sir. Thank you.’
Kit probed a little further, ‘Must have been a lot of couples around.’
‘Yes, we couldn’t find a seat anywhere.’
‘We?’
Miller turned to Kit and grinned guiltily, ‘You should be a detective, sir.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing, Harry.’
Miller looked at Kit while brushing down the jacket, ‘I’m sure something will turn up. Is there nothing new on the diamond robbery?’
Kit shook his head resignedly, ‘I don’t know. Chief Inspector Jellicoe is handling it now. I couldn’t ask you when we were in the car with Jellicoe, but what do you think of the Phantom? Professionally speaking, of course.’
Miller grinned. He had once been a cat burglar. This was before the War. The conflict had ended what had been a reasonably successful career. The subsequent meeting with Kit and the offer of employment merely cemented what would have been his wish anyway, to end this career before the police ended it for him.
