The Detective and the Spy

by Angela Misri

  The humming seemed to increase in pitch and move upwards, so I threw my satchel over my shoulder and pushed the empty wooden boxes in this container together against the wall, building myself a bit of a staircase up to the grain chute cut into the roof. I pressed up against the weighty rooftop opening with my shoulders, managed to open it about an inch and shoved the chair leg in to prop it open and allow me to look around. I could see the chain holding this rooftop door closed and shipping containers all around me, some stacked on top of each other and some already being examined by a pair of men holding flashlights. I ducked back down as the flashlights moved over my way, my heart beating so fast I had to remind myself to breathe. Even if Kell’s men took me in, I had promised Michaels that I would deal with him. Maybe I should just let myself get taken in. That’s when the machine I’d been hearing whirred above my head and lifted the shipping container to my left. I stifled a scream as it rotated the container and dropped it over the side of the ship into the water with a loud splash.

  That did not seem to please the two men opening crates because they flicked off their flashlights and ducked where I could no longer see them. If containers were being dumped over the side of the boat, I no longer had the luxury of waiting for Kell’s agents. Something had gone awry.

  I pushed down on one end of the chair leg like a lever and with a grunt managed to crank it open enough to squeeze through the opening. I slid down the side of the container in the darkness, still holding my chair leg as a weapon.

  “Thank God, Portia.”

  I looked up to see Brian Dawes staring down at me from the roof of another shipping container. “Come quick. It’s your grandfather.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “I’M FINE. STOP FUSSING,” Sherlock Holmes said for the third time, batting at my hands.

  “You collapsed, sir,” Brian said from the front of the lorry. “Please let Portia take care of you.”

  “I do not need ‘taking care of,’” the great detective grumbled as I wrapped a second blanket around him. His hand shot out of the layers of wool I was tucking around him to grab my wrist. He turned it over to view the red marks and his voice lowered to dangerous levels. “I will have his head for hurting you.”

  “He didn’t, Grandfather, but he did confirm that he is the one bringing in the weapons for the Brits,” I answered.

  “Bought from the Swiss, of all people,” Holmes put in. “Some locally manufactured, but a great many pulled from factories in Italy and Spain.”

  “We’ll never bring him in on this, will we?” I said, sitting down next to him and sharing the blankets. “Brian?”

  “I’m in pain, Portia, but I’m sober,” he said turning the wheel with both hands and a wince. “And no, I agree. If Gavin is helping the coalition government and he has diplomatic status, we have no chance at all of arresting him.”

  “Our only hope is that he’s double-crossing them at some stage of the process,” Holmes said. “Something I need to look into through contacts of mine in those other countries.”

  “Was that you two dropping containers over the side of the ship?”

  “Elementary mechanics,” Holmes replied. “The machinery was right there and it was easy to identify which container you were in based on the arrangement of the containers and their movement as the sea churned, so we just picked one of the alternates to give you the time to escape. Everything was going according to plan when I just felt a little short of breath.”

  Brian wisely chose not to correct my grandfather, concentrating on the roads instead.

  “What about Lancaster?” I asked. “Can we be sure he wasn’t also being kept in a container?”

  “Kell’s men got to him before we could stop them,” Holmes said, some colour coming back into his cheeks from the combination of my body heat and the blankets. “He’s being taken, no doubt, to a place where he can be questioned away from the more legal eyes of Scotland Yard.”

  “I know a spot,” I said grimly. “Brian, head towards Beans’ place.”

  “Not a hospital?”

  “No,” said both Holmes and I simultaneously, to which Brian started grumbling under his breath about being blamed for the death of the greatest detective in the world.

  “Thank you, my dear …,” my grandfather started to say, but I interrupted him.

  “I’m not taking you to a hospital because it’s pointless,” I said, rubbing at his arms. “You are an incorrigible patient. But I am asking you to go home to the country. You do better amongst your bees and fresh air and away from the stress of this city. It’s why you left. It’s why you stay away.”

  Holmes opened his mouth to argue, but I wouldn’t let him. “The case is solved. Admit it. You and I both know what happened. This is but a long finale.”

  “There is still the matter of Gavin Whitaker and Trident and ‘K’.”

  “Which I am sure you can handle from the countryside — perhaps better if you’d finally had a phone line installed,” I said. “Meanwhile, his immediate plans will be stymied by Brian and his colleagues at the Yard.”

  “Your faith in them astounds me,” he admitted, glancing at the front of the lorry. “Present company excluded, of course, young man.”

  Brian actually smiled in spite of the situation, wiping at his forehead. “Though I still don’t know why I called to have them evacuate the hotel. Someone had better explain it to me soon.”

  We ignored him, but shared a secret smile. “I weathered the explanations with my own Watson, my dear Portia,” my grandfather said in a lower tone. “I admit to being too irascible to go through my methods again and again.”

  “Brian has the patience of a saint, much like John Watson, and he will wait,” I said.

  “I think he’s through the worst of it,” Holmes said, speaking so low I had to revert to reading his lips again. “But he will never be totally free of the call. We’ve talked about it at length and he understands what he stands to lose if he falls again. You must both stay vigilant. An addictive personality can have more than one vice.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Thank you for talking to him. It’s his faith in me that makes our partnership work.”

  “And why you don’t need me,” Holmes said, the slightest hint of hurt in his voice, something you could only discern if you knew him well.

  “I do need you,” I corrected him. “But so does my grandmother.”

  He turned his face away from me for a moment, and then glanced back. “The necktie?”

  “No, the repeated application of royal jelly to your under-eyes. Did she make you wear that necktie?” I asked with a smile. “Her vanity is rubbing off on you, literally.”

  “It never works, you know,” he said. “She’s impossible. As am I.”

  “This could be the time ‘it works,’” I answered, squeezing him tight, hoping against hope that I was right and that he and Irene Adler could find some peace in their tortured love story.

  We drove Holmes to a shuttered schoolyard where Jenkins was waiting for him. I smiled at them both from the passenger side of the lorry, the legendary detective bundled in blankets and his resentful chauffeur, whose allegiance to my grandmother necessitated this brief alliance. Two men who loved Irene Adler and hated each other with every bit of their being.

  “Are we going in the front door or the back?” Brian asked me as the Vauxhall 30 sped away into the night.

  “Front,” I answered, my eyes watching until the Vauxhall turned a corner and left my sight. “It’s time Colonel Kell and I put all our cards on the table.”

  CHAPTER 39

  I WALKED UP THE front steps of the five-storey building I had exited from the roof at the beginning of this adventure. A surprised escort formed around me and helped me get to my destination: a room much different than the one I had been interrogated in. It seemed to be the central hub of the building on the main flo
or and was behind two locked doors guarded by armed men dressed all in black. The large room was encircled by a few men at desks, corkboards with papers pinned all over them, blackboards of names, and a television set showing the front door of 10 Downing Street. That gave me pause. I’d never seen this level of live surveillance before using the camera and television technology. Imagine its usefulness in law enforcement. And in law evasion. My mind spun at the possibilities.

  “What is it?” said Kell, not even looking up from his chair, facing away from the door. “I left express instructions not to be disturbed until you found the detective.”

  “Then I think we’ve satisfied your requirements,” I said, my eyes on Lancaster, who was sporting one Hell of a black eye and sat in a wooden chair facing me. He tried to smile, but winced, the pain in his mouth stopping him. I couldn’t help the glare directed at Kell when he finally turned at the sound of my voice.

  “Miss Adams,” Kell said, turning to face me. “This is a pleasant surprise. Here to confess?”

  “I am,” I replied. “But it would be best if I made the confession to you alone.”

  “Portia …,” Lancaster started to say, speaking slowly out of his wounded mouth.

  “I agree,” Kell said, straightening his shoulders. “All the better to compare your stories at the end of this affair.”

  He emphasized the word affair and I fought against rolling my eyes at his childish attempt to embarrass us. He bullied his men and Lancaster out of the room.

  “K, are you sure?” one of his men dared to ask.

  “Are you seriously worried about the likes of her?” Kell answered. “Get out. And take Lancaster with you.”

  “It would be best if my associate was not harmed further,” I said in a low voice. “Lest I be forced to retaliate.”

  “Are you threatening us with violence, Miss Adams?” Kell sputtered, looking me up and down, and doing that thing he did with his weapon, pulling aside his coat jacket to demonstrate its existence.

  “My retaliation will be much worse,” I promised, meeting the gaze of every man in the room. “Do not doubt me.”

  A full minute passed in shocked silence until one of the men reached out and closed the door behind them, eyes wide, leaving Kell and me alone in the large room.

  “You have Holmes’ arrogance,” Kell said, folding his arms across his chest, his voice bouncing off the high ceiling. “That belief that superior intelligence trumps everything else. Loyalty. Country. Truth.”

  “An interesting list of what your priorities are,” I said, taking a seat where Lancaster had been sitting. “Does your loyalty extend beyond your own limited view of who deserves it? Put another way, where was your loyalty to Lancaster?”

  “Don’t try and school me on Ian Lancaster,” he spat. “That man has fouled every file he’s been handed. The loss of Major Collins was just the …”

  “The murder of Major Collins was arranged by this office,” I interrupted. “And I can prove it.”

  Kell turned three shades of red, but said nothing.

  “The person who killed Major Collins and the informant became your most useful mole in the Irish movement,” I said. “Their code name was Trident, not Major Collins. Lancaster admitted to me that their efforts had resulted in no useful information and suddenly, Collins dies and you’re able to make headway for the first time in nearly a decade. They’re still your most trusted agent — you sent them to meet with the prince when you suspected the O’Duffys were involved in the bombings.”

  Kell ground his teeth, but continued to silently stare at me, as if daring me to continue.

  “Did you disavow Lancaster out of spite or because it aided your fictitious storyline of removing all agents from the area?” I asked, curious, but expecting no answer and receiving none. “It’s Heddy that is the biggest question to me. Was she an agent or just a valuable pawn? It seems coincidental that she’s in Ireland, and then she’s with Major Collins, and then she’s at Downing Street. When did she come on board with your group?”

  “Heddy Collins is a patriot,” Kell finally bit out. “Don’t waste my time by repeating the rot you’ve been telling Lancaster about her being involved with the bombings. She would never.”

  “I agree. It sounds like that kind of attention would be her worst nightmare,” I said. “Good thing we’re talking to her in such a private location.”

  Kell followed my eye line to see Heddy Collins and Annie following Inspector Michaels through the previously closed door.

  “Who the Hell do you think you are?” Kell managed to get out, his hand now massaging the butt of his gun. I was starting to think it was a bit of a safety blanket for the man rather than an actual threat of violence.

  “Portia, I’m so glad to see you,” Annie said, running to me as soon as she saw me. “Brian told me what happened. By the time I got to the fabric store, you were all gone.”

  “You were late, which I hope means that you found what I needed,” I answered, returning her hug.

  She grinned from ear to ear, handing me a bundle of paperwork. “Not just me.”

  “I contributed to that pile as well, Adams, so be sure to include me in your case file, won’t you?” Michaels said, puffing around his usual cigar.

  “Michaels, I might have known you were aiding and abetting these two,” Kell said, jerking a chin at Lancaster, who had entered the room as well, pressing a bag of ice to his wounded chin.

  “I have no idea who that is,” Michaels said, escorting Heddy Collins into our midst and finding her a chair.

  “Mrs. Collins, I will have you returned home as soon as I can locate my men,” Kell said, speaking to the woman seated in our midst.

  “That might take a few minutes,” Michaels said. “Turns out your men have been dispatched to The Gore Hotel to round up the last of the missing bombs.”

  “Dispatched?” Kell repeated. “Dispatched by whom?”

  “By His Royal Highness,” Lancaster answered. “He did offer the full force of the British military, after all, and, upon hearing of this credible threat to the negotiators, pulled all your men out.”

  I sat down in front of Heddy Collins, who, remarkably, looked well-used to this level of hostility.

  “Mrs. Collins, my name is Portia Adams,” I said. “You’ve already met Annie and the inspector, and of course, you and Lancaster have known each other for years.”

  “Hello Heddy,” Lancaster said. “I’m sorry you’ve been brought into this, but Portia would not be dissuaded.”

  Michaels and Kell both snorted at this understatement and then glared at each other.

  “It’s true. I’m very hard to wiggle off an idea once I’ve had it and I think I may have that in common with your daughter,” I said, watching for a reaction from the woman with the unforgettable eyes.

  “I do not have a daughter,” she said finally, pressing her purse against her stomach like it could protect her. “Major Collins and I were only together for a few months.”

  She looked to Kell and Lancaster, who both nodded.

  “A child from your first marriage,” I corrected, “to Harold Digby.”

  This got a reaction. She clutched at her purse so tight her knuckles turned white.

  “Val and Harold Digby,” Annie said, opening the file on my lap. “Parents to Ilsa Digby, born 1919.”

  “And the marriage certificate of Valerie Zimmermann and Harold Digby, 1917,” Michaels put in.

  “Digby thought you left him because of the drink,” I said, leaning forward “But I think you left because of the prejudice against you. I think you got fed up with being treated like an outsider and decided to leave your old miserable life behind. I don’t know if you tried to make a go of it with your daughter and couldn’t or if you planned to leave her at an orphanage from the start, but at some point, you started over. You left your old life and yo
ur old name behind and moved north where no one would know you.”

  “No, no,” Kell said, stepping forward to look at Annie’s file. “We looked into Heddy Weber when Collins revealed himself to her. She was a refugee from the war.”

  “Heddy Weber fled Germany,” I agreed, letting Annie flip pages until she found the one she was looking for. “I suspect in the same caravan that Valerie Zimmerman did.”

  “Did she die here or on the journey across the border, Val?” Annie asked.

  “She arrived in London, registered here as a refugee,” I answered when the woman seated in front of us would not. “I suspect she died within a year of moving here, though. When you moved away, you took her name with you so that Digby couldn’t find you.

  “You’re a survivor,” I said with admiration. “Even when Major Collins was killed, you pivoted, moved back to London with his name and Lancaster’s help, and then when Kell came to you with an offer of employment, you threw Lancaster under the bus.”

  I looked up at Lancaster, seeing the hurt in his eyes, and regretted that I would have to tell him what else had been done to him in the service of his country.

  “What has this to do with the bombs?” Kell broke in. “Even if what you say is true, and Heddy Collins is actually Valerie Zimmermann, surely you’re not saying that she is behind the bombings. Why would she target her place of work?”

  “She wouldn’t,” I said. “But her daughter — who it turns out, was smarter than any of you — found her out and came up with a perfect revenge for being cast aside. First, she found her father and then she ingratiated herself into the Collins family, perhaps through the colonel, or perhaps through Alisha Collins.” I looked to Michaels for this answer.

  “Checked with the family and it sounds like Alisha was part of the Irish Feminist movement and brought home some friends, one of whom fits the description of young Ilsa,” Michaels said.

  “Right, so she found out about the bombs through her friend Alisha and suddenly she had an even better revenge than just outing the mother who abandoned her,” I continued. “She stole the bombs and tried to use one to kill her father.”