by Jim Eldridge
Stark went into his son’s bedroom and found Stephen just stirring. ‘Morning, son,’ he smiled. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘All right,’ yawned Stephen, pushing himself up from the covers.
‘I thought I might take you to school this morning,’ said Stark. ‘What do you think?’
‘With Grandad?’ asked Stephen.
‘Your gran says your grandad is feeling a bit poorly this morning, so he’s going to stay in bed for a bit longer.’
Immediately, he saw a flash of alarm in Stephen’s eyes. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’ he asked.
He’s suffered too many people dying in his short life, thought Stark. He shook his head and made sure Stephen saw his reassuring smile. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that.’ He winked and lowered his voice to a whisper as he said, ‘If you ask me, it’s because he’s getting on a bit. He needs more rest. But he won’t admit it. You know your grandad.’
Stephen smiled back.
‘So, is that all right, me taking you to school?’
Stephen nodded, a big smile on his face. ‘Yes! That’ll be great!’
A loud banging on the front door stopped Stark before he could say any more. He looked at his watch, puzzled. Quarter past seven. It was far too early for his car to arrive.
They heard the sound of the front door opening, his mother’s voice and a man’s, then his mother called up the stairs, ‘It’s a policeman, Paul! For you!’
Stark groaned. What now? He gave Stephen a smile. ‘I’ll go and see what he wants. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Ted Post was standing on the doorstep, in uniform, looking apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to call so early, sir,’ he said. ‘But Chief Superintendent Benson insisted.’
Stark stared at Ted, stunned. ‘Benson’s in at this hour?’ he queried.
‘On his way, sir,’ said Ted. ‘He phoned the Yard and left a message for the duty driver to come and get you.’
Stark hesitated, torn. ‘Are you sure it can’t wait, Ted? I promised my son I’d take him to school.’
‘The message said it was very urgent, sir.’
‘Another murder?’ asked Stark, his heart sinking at the thought.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Ted. ‘All the message said was to come and get you and take you to the Yard, urgent. Orders of Chief Superintendent Benson.’
Stark sighed and nodded. ‘I’ll get my coat.’ He turned to look enquiringly at his mother, who’d been standing listening to this exchange with a worried look on her face.
She nodded. ‘I’ll take Stephen to school,’ she said.
‘I’ll just go up and tell him,’ he said.
Stephen was out of bed and pulling on his clothes when Stark returned.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go, Stephen,’ he said unhappily. ‘Scotland Yard have sent a car for me. They need me urgently. So I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you to school this morning after all.’
For a moment, Stephen’s face registered his disappointment. But then he forced a smile. ‘That’s all right, Dad,’ he said. ‘Another time will do.’
Yes, thought Stark bitterly, it’s always going to be ‘another time’. He kissed his son and said goodbye to Sarah.
As the car raced through the streets, he thought about his relationship with his son. The truth was, they hardly really saw one another. He did his best, but working late often meant that Stephen was in bed by the time he came home, and because crime didn’t work office hours, Saturdays and Sundays too often were spent at the Yard or questioning people.
I need a proper job, he thought. One with regular daytime hours, where I can spend proper time with Stephen, helping him as he grows up, enjoying doing things with him. Stephen was eight years old and the years seemed to fly by more quickly than ever. Soon Stephen would be nine, then ten, then twelve, then fourteen, and leaving school to go to work. And I’ll have missed his childhood.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When he got to the Yard, Stark found Sergeant Mason on duty at the reception desk.
‘I hear there’s a flap on,’ he said. ‘What’s happened? Another murder?’
Mason shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No one’s said anything about it to me if there is. All I know is the chief super came in in a terrible temper. He asked if you were in yet, and when I told him you were on your way, he flew up the stairs.’
So it was serious, but not another murder, reflected Stark. We can be thankful for that, at least.
He went up the wide, ornate marbled staircase to the first floor, and along the corridor to the chief superintendent’s office. Benson was standing by his desk, glaring at a leaflet clutched in his hand. He glowered as Stark came into his office. ‘You should be on the telephone, Stark!’ he snapped.
‘I got your message, sir,’ said Stark.
‘A message isn’t good enough! This is the twentieth century, not the Dark Ages! We need faster reactions!’
‘Yes, sir. I believe something has happened?’
‘Yes!’ Benson thrust the leaflet at Stark, who took it. It was badly printed on cheap paper, but the message was clear:
Who are the real murderers?
Lord Amersham and Tobias Smith MP are dead.
Who’s next?
We’re coming for you.
The Hand of Justice.
‘These were stuck up on walls in the most expensive areas of London during the night,’ said Benson. ‘Knightsbridge. Maida Vale. Kensington. Hampstead. And this was pushed through the letterboxes of most of the daily papers. Luckily, it was too late for them to print for this morning’s editions, but it’ll be in the later ones.’
He handed Stark a letter. Like the leaflet, it was badly printed on cheap paper. Stark read it.
To the Editor.
The poor of this country have suffered too long. Millions gave their lives during the war and their reward has been even greater poverty for their families they left behind. The real murderers are those who grow rich on the poor who died. The slum landlords. The profiteers.
Now the people are rising up and throwing off their oppressors. Proper wages and proper living conditions have been denied to the poor of this country for too long. Now we are taking those rights by force. The first move is to clear away the scum who keep the poor down and stop them having their rights. Lord Amersham and Tobias Smith are just the start. Others will follow.
The Hand of Justice.
Churchill’s Bolsheviks, thought Stark.
‘The Prime Minister’s secretary telephoned me at home at a quarter past six this morning! That’s how important this is, Stark!’
‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Stark, putting on an appropriate expression of deep concern. Inwardly, he thought angrily, And for this I gave up taking Stephen to school! Another hour would have made no difference at all to this situation.
Benson was still talking. ‘A meeting to deal with this has been convened at Ten Downing Street. You’re to go.’
‘With the Prime Minister, sir?’
‘The Home Secretary, Edward Shortt, will be chairing it. You will represent Scotland Yard. Special Branch will be there.’
‘Who else, sir?’
‘At this stage, I don’t know. It’s short notice.’ He pointed at the leaflet. ‘This could be the biggest threat we’ve faced since the war, Stark. Insurrection!’
‘What time is this meeting?’
‘Nine o’clock. You’d better get along there now. Better early than late. We don’t want to show ourselves up, not at Downing Street.’
‘No, sir.’
Stark took the leaflet and the letter and hurried up the stairs to the next landing and his office. Danvers was already there, studying a copy of the same leaflet.
‘They roped you in as well?’ asked Stark.
Danvers shook his head. ‘Uncle Edwin phoned me. They stuck one of these on his gatepost. I thought it might cause a fuss, so I came in.’
‘Cause a fuss is right,’ grunted S
tark. ‘The Prime Minister’s summoned a conference to deal with it. The chief super has ordered me to attend, representing Scotland Yard.’
‘Congratulations, sir,’ said Danvers, impressed.
‘I’m not sure if congratulations are in order,’ commented Stark doubtfully.
‘But a conference at Downing Street …’ persisted Danvers.
‘Politicians do not necessarily make good policemen, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘Our primary job is to stop crime, and apprehend the criminals when it happens. Their agenda is driven by political survival.’
‘What do you want me to do while you’re out, sir?’
‘Carry on digging into the lives of Lord Amersham and Tobias Smith. There has to be something else besides the Irish issue that links them.’
In the car on the way to Downing Street, Stark weighed up this new development: the threat from the Hand of Justice. Was it a new development or a red herring? It had certainly set the cat among the pigeons as far as the ruling classes were concerned, but could it be that was its sole aim? To rattle the ruling elite? Or were they really behind the two killings?
Stark also reflected on the fact that he was being sent to this conference. A chief inspector. Why hadn’t Chief Superintendent Benson opted to go himself? Or, at least, detail one of his superintendents? Instead, Benson was sending a detective chief inspector – a senior officer, but not that senior.
His mind went back to the conversation the previous evening with Sir Edwin Drake, and the reason why de Valera wasn’t in London. Because de Valera knew the talks would be seen as a failure in Ireland and he intended to distance himself from them. Collins had been sent as his emissary, but also as his scapegoat. When the blame game began, the finger would be pointed at Collins, not at de Valera.
Is that the case here? thought Stark. Benson knows that this investigation seems to be failing so far. The defence that it was early days in the investigation would cut no ice with the politicians, those who felt threatened and might consider themselves as the next targets. Being selected to attend this conference as the representative of Scotland Yard, the investigating team, was a poisoned chalice as far as Stark was concerned. This conference was not just to move the investigation forward; it was to start pointing fingers, to begin allocating blame. Two high-profile people from the establishment had been murdered and no one was yet in custody. Threats had been made against the rest of the ruling elite. The politicians were afraid, not just for their lives but about their careers. They needed the confidence of the electorate if they were to hang on to their jobs. They needed to show people that they were on top of this threat, and to do that, they needed someone to blame. A scapegoat.
Michael Collins and I have more in common than just our birth dates and military experiences, thought Stark ruefully. We’re both going to be hung out to dry.
TWENTY-NINE
The faces around the long, shiny, dark oak table in the conference room inside 10 Downing Street were grim. Stark was at one end, sitting next to Chief Inspector Burns and Inspector Rogers of Special Branch. At the other end were various high-ranking uniforms representing the army: two field marshals and a brigadier. So martial law is a possibility, thought Stark. In between were various civil servants, all dressed in identical dark clothes, some making notes even though the meeting had not even begun. Near to them sat Winston Churchill, glowering and glaring, shifting on his chair as if he was just bursting to start making his points.
The Home Secretary, Edward Shortt, took pride of place at the centre of the table. Shortt looked very much an old establishment figure, dressed formally in dark suit and tie, the monocle he habitually wore giving him the air of a Victorian aristocrat. In fact, Stark knew that this was appearance only. Shortt did not come from a titled family; his father had been a vicar in Newcastle upon Tyne. He’d gained his degree at Durham University, rather than Oxford or Cambridge, and after a career as a barrister he’d entered politics on the Liberal ticket, entering parliament as the member for Newcastle. He’d been appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland at the same time as Ireland had the seen rise of republicanism, and he’d been promoted to Home Secretary in 1919, right in the middle of a strike by the police. Both appointments had been seen as poisoned chalices, positions no one wanted at those particular times, but Shortt had carried them off with aplomb and a minimum of fuss. He’d managed to settle the police strike to the satisfaction of both sides, and had actually ended up gaining the support and respect of most rank-and-file police officers.
Because Shortt did everything in an understated and non-dramatic style, he’d gained the reputation – unfair in Stark’s opinion – of being lazy and lacking in energy. In this he was the polar opposite of Churchill, who seemed to bristle with high energy even when he was just sitting down. This became apparent as soon as Shortt tapped the badly printed leaflet in front of him, and said, ‘Well, gentlemen. What do we make of this?’
That was the cue that Churchill had been waiting for. He immediately pointed a stubby finger at Stark and growled accusingly, ‘I told you this was Bolsheviks, Stark!’
‘You did, indeed, Mr Secretary,’ nodded Stark. ‘And we investigated the known Bolshevik organization, the British Communist Party.’ He looked pointedly at Burns and Rogers. ‘With the cooperation of our colleagues in Special Branch.’ Who are already deep inside the BCP, he thought.
It was Burns who moved in to cover Special Branch. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said smoothly. ‘And we have continued our investigations into them.’ He tapped the leaflet in front of him. ‘Whereas this apparent organization, the Hand of Justice, has yet to be proven.’
‘What do you mean, Chief Inspector?’ asked Edward Shortt.
‘For all we know, they may not even exist as an organization. They may be just a few radicals exploiting the tragic deaths of Lord Amersham and Mr Smith for their own ends.’
Shortt looked at the leaflet and nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yes, that’s a good point,’ he said. ‘In which case, we will have been made fools of.’ He looked around the table. ‘What does everyone else think? Has anyone heard of this Hand of Justice?’
There was a shaking of heads.
‘However,’ spoke up Stark, ‘it is worth pointing out that these leaflets appeared on walls in the more affluent areas of London, all some distance apart, in a very short space of time.’
‘What’s your point?’ demanded Churchill.
‘To stick these up on walls in places as far apart as Knightsbridge, Hampstead, Maida Vale, Westminster, St James’s, and all at the same time, means a lot of people and efficient coordination. Which suggests an organization rather than a few radicals.’ As his words sank in, he added, ‘However, I agree with Chief Inspector Burns. That does not necessarily mean they are connected with the shootings. They may well be taking advantage of them for their own political ends.’
‘What is the situation regarding the murders?’ asked Shortt. ‘Do we have any viable suspects?’
Stark felt all eyes on him. ‘We are still pursuing various lines of enquiry,’ he said. ‘At the moment we are trying to establish what might have connected Lord Amersham and Mr Smith. We believe there will be a link as the same person killed them both.’
‘The link is Bolshevism!’ roared Churchill. ‘They were both in Parliament!’
‘True,’ nodded Stark. ‘But there may be other issues.’
He looked towards Burns and Rogers, waiting for them to bring up the issue of Irish home rule, but both men kept their eyes averted from him and their heads down, apparently studying the leaflet and letter to the press from the Hand of Justice, resolutely making sure they could not be accused of bringing the issue of Ireland into the discussion.
One of the field marshals tapped his copy of the letter to the press and announced, ‘I think one of the first things to do is put out a government notice, stopping the newspapers from printing this. We’ve got to make sure we don’t have revolutionaries running riot in the streets. This
letter is the sort of thing that could trigger that.’
‘Too late for that, I’m afraid,’ said Shortt. ‘In fact, the mid-morning editions will be on the streets already.’ He sighed. ‘These people knew what they were doing, with the timing.’
‘Our first duty is to protect the King and Queen,’ said Churchill. ‘We can’t have a repeat here of what happened in Russia.’
Burns nodded. ‘Steps have already been taken,’ he assured the meeting. ‘Extra security officers have been assigned to the royal family, and we have looked at their timetable of forthcoming public engagements.’
‘We also feel that the situation here in England is very different to the events that tragically happened in Russia,’ added Rogers. ‘There, the political situation encouraged the murders of the Romanoff family. Here, we believe the majority of the public support the King and Queen and actively wish to protect them from harm.’
‘At the moment!’ thundered Churchill. He thumped his fist on the leaflet. ‘That could soon change if these people have their way! Riot! Revolution!’
And so it went on: the same things, the same sentiments being repeated over and over again around the table. It was Special Branch who made a suggestion to counter Churchill’s and the army’s fears of insurrection breaking out when the letter from the Hand of Justice became public.
‘I suggest we cast doubt on the Hand of Justice being a real political force,’ suggested Burns. ‘Expose them as a fraud, a bunch of would-be radicals who actually have nothing to do with the tragic murders. Discredit them and their awful press releases.’
‘How do we do that?’ asked the brigadier.
‘We put out a statement from someone who was a member of this so-called organization, giving the truth about them. That they are useless idiots, mentally unstable, who are just using these tragic murders for their own ends.’
‘We could add that they are also known sexual perverts,’ added Rogers. ‘The public hate that.’
‘So you’d be making it up?’ asked the brigadier.
‘We’d be true to the reality of the situation,’ said Rogers.
