The Detective and the Spy

by Angela Misri

  He slurped down the last of his tea and we made our way out of the shop the way we had come in. I left the back door unlocked in case we needed to come back in here today. The shopkeeper would be in within the hour and would probably think he had forgotten to lock up last night.

  I led Brian down the block behind the shops and then we stole across the street from an angle Lancaster would not be able to see us should he be looking out the windows at the pub, and made our way back to The Wool and Weaver from the alley behind it. Like all the shops on this side of the street, this one was a three-storey, with the pub on the main level, storage or sleeping quarters on top and a short basement that could be accessed through a pair of barn doors. I dismissed the basement because of the chain and lock on them. If they were down there, I didn’t have the equipment to pick that lock and they would surely hear us when we came down the stairs. I’d have to rely on Brian’s ears to help us sneak up on them.

  He put his hand on the doorknob to the back of the shop, but I stopped him. Something smelled wrong — literally. In addition to Lancaster’s favoured cigarette brand I smelled something else I recognized.

  “Shalimar,” I whispered at Brian, pulling him away from the door, which swung open, extinguishing any hopes of escape.

  CHAPTER 27

  “PARTNERS,” I REPEATED INCREDULOUSLY, my hand on Brian’s back as he heaved over a sink in the pub’s kitchen.

  “Not by choice, believe me,” Amélie wrote on her notepad, “but out of necessity.”

  “Then you are not with Box 850?” I pressed.

  “Neither of us are,” Amélie wrote before Lancaster could answer. He closed his mouth with a snap and looked away.

  “What the Hell is going on?” Brian said, splashing water on his face before turning around to face us all. “If he’s not a spy …”

  “He’s been disavowed,” I said, understanding Lancaster’s actions for the first time since he struck Kell in that interrogation room. “You’ve been trying to get back into Box 850’s good books to make up for something you did. Something that got you kicked out.”

  Amélie nodded vigorously, pointing at the words she had just written. “I thought he was phoning in bomb threats in order to ingratiate himself with the British Secret Intelligence Service. I knew of his interest in you from the first bombing and so I made myself available to help you with your recovery.”

  “But Amélie quickly figured out that neither of us were behind the bombings,” Lancaster inserted, stepping forward again to speak. “And we joined forces. That’s how I knew you were going to be at The Trifle. Amélie had seen your note to Annie when she dropped off the lip-reading books.”

  Annoyed as I was by this further evidence of intrusion, I couldn’t help but feel a little better about having another intelligent mind at our side.

  Brian sat down on a stool, nodding his head slowly. “Then you are with Le Premier Bureau?”

  “Actually, Le Deuxième Bureau. Amélie Blaise,” I read off the small wallet Amélie produced from her purse. “Which means you’re assigned to foreign threats.”

  Amélie signed something that I took to be agreement.

  “Does my cousin, Heather, know of this, or the Watsons?”

  “No, I am good at my job, even you would not have discovered this about me if I didn’t believe we could help each other stop this threat,” Amélie wrote.

  “I need to speak to Amélie alone,” I said to the men in the room.

  Brian looked ready to argue and then seemed to think he could use some alone time with Lancaster and agreed. I led the French woman into the bar and to the stairs that led to the second floor. I sat down, as did she, pen and paper ready.

  “I wish I was able to sign with you, it would go much faster,” I said, enunciating each word. “And I promise, I will rectify that hole in my education at my first opportunity, but for now, there are a few things I need to know.”

  “You want to know if I am really with the French service.”

  “No, I believe you at your word. As I said the first time I met you, you have lived in France, your clothes speak of a higher class of living than a simple sign language teacher, and it was very convenient that you were in town just when I needed you. When I see you now, I can add to those first impressions a penchant for spy tools like the small knife you have concealed in your hair barrette and the hollow heel in your left boot — what do you keep in there by the way?”

  “Lock-picking tools at present, but anything I might need on a mission,” she wrote. “Your hearing is so much better you can hear my hollow heel?”

  “It’s not perfect,” I admitted. “But I didn’t hear the hollowness of the heel, it’s the faint scrape marks of sliding the heel off and on that you can see, here and here. It doesn’t exist on your right boot at all. Amélie, I want to know what you know about Lancaster.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeated, reading the word and not understanding. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  She glanced at the room we had just left. I realized I had been tensely listening for the sounds of a fist-fight coming from the other side. I forced myself to relax and trust Brian.

  “Look, I will admit that Lancaster has come in handy while we were on the run, but I need to know that he’s not working a long game with Box 850,” I said.

  “A long game?”

  “I cannot fathom what it would be other than to divert me from my detective work, but who knows. Maybe they’re trying to entice me into joining the service. Though truth be told, this is a terrible enticement.”

  “I know for a fact that his name is Ian Lancaster and he’s not working for Box 850, but I cannot tell you why. He lost his standing while posted in Northern Ireland. A man died and Lancaster was held responsible. The Secret Intelligence Service disavowed him and claim he never worked for them at all. I know different because we have records of him from various incursions into France. Something the British government could not expunge.”

  “The man who died, was his name Major Collins?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. There was a spy whose code name was Trident who turned the Irish conflict almost single-handedly.”

  I shook my head. Tridents again. Every time I thought I had Gavin squared away, he rose up like a bad penny.

  “There’s something about that family,” I said. “The wife and Lancaster have a history, I am sure of it. I can’t imagine how Gavin might be connected, but I can’t rule it out — even if it’s one chance in a thousand.”

  “Gavin?”

  “Long story.”

  Amélie hesitated and then flipped the notepad to write, “Trust Lancaster or don’t, but in the meantime, new threats have come up in London.”

  I signalled for her to follow me back into the kitchens. If we were going to talk about the case, we needed all the data and Lancaster had some I needed.

  I opened the kitchen door not sure what to expect, so I was pleasantly surprised to see the two men sharing a bottle of rum, sitting on two barstools. I had a moment to wonder if they had discussed me at all, but if Lancaster had spoken of our stolen kiss, Brian was doing a remarkable job of acting like he didn’t care. Or maybe he was three sheets to the wind.

  “Lancaster found where the bombs were taken from,” Brian announced as soon as we were close enough to read lips.

  “Not from the central armoury, but the whole system’s up in arms because the bombs went missing from some former colonel’s personal stash,” Lancaster explained, turning his face towards Amélie so she could read his lips. “The man was taken in for questioning by both Kell and Scotland Yard, but he’d forgotten he even had them down in his cellars. He took them at the end of the Great War, some kind of souvenir or something, and it was his daughter who remembered them when the bombs were identified by the Yard in the papers.”

  “She dragged him down t
o the cellars to discover they were missing and then tattled on him to the police,” Brian said with a shake of his head. “I’m all for civic duty, but that must have made for a cold family dinner that night.”

  Lancaster actually laughed at that joke, a sound I had never heard but sounded good coming from him. Brian smiled, another thing I had missed very much, and I stepped closer to him, being careful of his injured hand.

  “So, the bombs were taken from the colonel, who wasn’t really paying attention and has no idea when or who took them,” Amélie had meanwhile written on her pad, “and they are being deployed by an amateur, according to the two of you.”

  “Yes. But are all the stolen bombs accounted for? We pulled eleven off the ceiling of the basement in The Trifle and one exploded at the train station and at the college,” I said.

  “The colonel remembers there being at least thirty,” Lancaster said ruefully, stubbing out his cigarette. “And his daughter corroborates that story.”

  “Then there could be more than seventeen mines still out there,” Brian said, reaching for the bottle again and deciding against it. Lancaster offered one of his cigarettes instead. The tobacco seemed to improve the colour in his face, which wasn’t surprising as that was just another drug. At least this one was less addictive.

  “Another threat was called in this morning, to Balmoral Castle,” Amélie wrote. “The royal family aren’t there, but the papers are reporting it as if it was a direct attack aimed at the king.”

  “The threat was called in this morning and it’s already in the papers?” I asked.

  Amélie nodded in response.

  “We need to anticipate the next threat,” Lancaster said. “We need to be there ready for this bomber to strike again.”

  “We have three opportunities to test theories,” I agreed. “I, for one, am headed for Buckingham Palace.”

  CHAPTER 28

  WE DISPERSED TO WHERE our respective instincts led us with the plan to regroup three days hence at The Wool and Weaver. Lancaster went back to Downing Street where he was sure another attempt would be made on the prime minister, Amélie was going to speak to the colonel and his daughter, Alisha, and then apply her skills at the pubs lining the Kilburn district, liking Éamon O’Duffy best as a suspect. That left Brian and me with Buckingham Palace, a huge piece of real estate to cover with hundreds of people inside and outside the gates. I convinced him to come with me rather than head back to the Yard with the argument that so big a target needed two able bodies, but the truth was, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight for fear he would be pulled back towards his addiction.

  Fortunately for our work, it was pouring buckets today in London, so tourists and even working Londoners were not hanging about outside the gates of the palace. Unfortunately, that meant that it was hard for us to do the same without calling attention to why two mad humans were staring up at the home of the royal family in a rainstorm. I snagged one of the urchins begging under a small copse of trees, handing her a coin to find Ruby and bring her this way — there was another coin in it for her if she did it right quick. She took off like a shot and we stepped into a phone box so Brian could ring up his parents — a phone call that was a long time coming and resulted in tears on both ends of the conversation. They heard my voice and were very appreciative that I’d found their boy and brought him back to our work. Cognizant that Baker Street was still being watched by Box 850, the Yard, and possibly Gavin, we gave no details as to where we were or when we could be expected at the apartment. Brian hung up the phone and leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth.

  “How bad is your pain today?” I asked, purposefully looking away from his hand that was no longer encased in the silk glove.

  He took a minute to answer. “The truth is, not as bad as it was before. I think the pain was so bad at first that I was terrified to feel it again, so I medicated and then medicated again before I needed to medicate. I stopped measuring my pain and just avoided it.

  “I’m ashamed to admit that I’d never felt that kind of pain before. I couldn’t think … I couldn’t feel anything but the pain.” He looked at his hand, flexing it carefully, his eyes crinkling to indicate how hard that movement was. “I can’t believe I was so easily manipulated into addiction. Even now I can feel the siren call for its effects. I don’t need it, but I do — does that make any sense?”

  “My limited experience with opium comes from the Case of the Wild Revelers if you recall, with that group of students at Exeter. But according to Watson’s notes on Holmes, addiction comes in many forms and answers many ills, from pain to boredom,” I answered, glad we could talk about this openly. “When we get back to Baker Street, I will do more of a study on the subject. We will conquer this too.”

  He nodded, pointing at two young girls running through the rain in our direction, “Meanwhile, your Baker Street Irregulars have arrived in double-time.”

  We pulled the girls into the relative dryness of the call box and Ruby earned her commission in that moment. The palace was interviewing gardeners today at 1:00 p.m., inviting them in through one of the back doors. She knew this because one of her peers had overheard two barflies discussing the opportunity outside a pub three nights ago as they smoked over a dumpster. The children intended to source broken umbrellas from rubbish bins and sell them to the hopeful applicants as they stood in queue in the rain.

  We hurriedly made our way to the side entrance on the agreement that we would be the first to buy an umbrella from Ruby, thereby lending credence to her enterprise. Brian and I devised our plan along the way and Ruby promised to contact Annie with the update that we were together as soon as she’d exhausted the coin purses in the queue. There were only a dozen or so people who had braved the downpour, so when the gates opened, we were all ushered in together, shivering in the outer lobby of the downstairs kitchens. I watched a trio of young butlers rush about with silverware and two young maids giggle on their way to their lunch breaks as they passed.

  A starchily dressed butler escorted the first applicant out of the lobby and up the stairs, and I took a moment to introduce myself to the men standing at the door.

  “Sir, may I step into the powder room?” I asked the very old man with a white beard that would rival Moses.

  “Eh? I don’t think so, quite out of the question,” he answered, a look of surprise crossing his face at my voice.

  I stepped even closer and the man actually leaned away from me, “Sir, it is a very delicate thing … I really must insist, or I might … embarrass myself in Buckingham Palace of all places … and thereby involve you and these fine people in my humiliation. Please. I will be no trouble.”

  He turned three shades of red contemplating the variety of things that could mean and stammeringly directed me down the hall. I didn’t look back at Brian as I left, trusting that he would get me out of any trouble I found myself in — no matter how he was suffering.

  I walked directly to the room indicated, stepping in and turning on the light. I counted to twenty before I chanced opening the door again, ascertaining that the bearded man wasn’t watching me, and locked it behind me with the light still on. Hopefully that would keep them at bay for as long as I needed. Plus, Brian had several distractions in mind to make them forget me entirely.

  I had left my satchel with Brian just in case he needed any of my tools, so, I followed my nose until I found the room I wanted — the laundry. In a trice I was dressed as a palace maid, my hair tucked into a simple bonnet, and I was climbing the stairs carrying a bundle of folded towels, my heart in my throat.

  The palace was busy with staff today, but no one questioned who I was or what I was about. I picked out a newer member of the staff — as evidenced by her anxiously bitten fingernails, unhemmed uniform, and high heels.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” I whispered, pasting a look of terror on my face. I caught her attention and ducked behind a pi
llar. To my delight, she took the bait and came around to see what I was doing.

  “What in heaven’s name?”

  “Please, you must help me, Miss,” I blurted out, clutching at her sleeve and causing her to look around to make sure no one was looking at us. “I was to deliver these towels to a Mrs. Wilans …”

  “Ms. Wilans,” the young maid corrected. “Then go on, deliver them, what matter is it to me?”

  “I’ve gotten turned around three times looking for the right room,” I whispered, hoping my performance was as good as it sounded in my head, because I had to be quick lest Brian be left alone too long. “Where am I to take them? Do you know?”

  “To her rooms, I am sure,” the maid said, succeeding in removing my desperate hand from her arm, and directing me. “Take the second door through that hallway, go up the stairs and all the way to the end to find Ms. Wilans’ room. Go on with you! Before you get us both sacked!”

  I took off at my fastest walk, cataloguing things against my will as I sped to my destination: the cook who was skimming from the kitchens, the butler having an affair with two of the maids and keeping them both in the dark.

  I reached the second door through the hallway and nearly dropped my towels. Three corgis came barrelling towards me chased by none other than the young daughters of the Duke of York, Elizabeth and Margaret. They raced right by me, paying me absolutely no heed, calling after their puppies, and chased in turn by no less than two stern-looking nannies. I gave myself a moment to catch my breath and then continued on my way, climbing the stairs and keeping the towels in front of me until I’d reached the end of the hallway. I knocked on the door, hoping against hope. Once, twice, finally the older woman I’d only ever seen in the papers swung the door open, an angry look on her face. “Did you not hear me call out ‘Come in’ several times?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” I admitted, truthfully. “I am so sorry, it’s my first day.”