Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  With that, he hung up and turned angrily to Stark. ‘Where the hell have you been, Stark?’

  ‘At home in bed, sir.’

  ‘At home in bed?’ The words came out as if they were an expletive.

  ‘I didn’t get home until four thirty this morning, sir, and I began at six o’clock the day before. Twenty-two hours’ uninterrupted duty. I believed I was entitled to three hours’ sleep before starting work again today.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Benson, ignoring Stark’s answer. He pointed at the telephone. ‘That was the Commissioner of Police himself, Stark. He is furious, and justifiably so! All this stuff in the papers and he knew nothing about it.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I didn’t think I had high enough authority to contact the Commissioner direct, which is why I telephoned you.’

  ‘In the early hours! When it’s too late to do anything about it!’

  ‘Unfortunately, the evidence was only finally gathered together in the early hours,’ Stark pointed out.

  ‘Yes, well … What are we going to do?’ blustered Benson.

  ‘I believe we are already doing it, sir. We’ve put out the wanted notices—’

  ‘I mean about the questions that are being asked in Parliament?’

  ‘That’s hardly our area, sir—’ began Stark.

  ‘Of course it is, dammit!’ raged Benson. ‘They pay our wages, Stark! They need answers! How far has this thing spread? Who are the targets? When will they strike? Are they planning to blow up Parliament?’

  The spectre of Guy Fawkes, thought Stark. ‘We’ll find out the answers to these questions once information starts coming in, sir.’

  ‘It’s already coming in, Stark! Every lunatic and money-grubber in the land has been pouring into their local police station, eager to get their hands on the hundred pounds you promised them! The switchboard here at Scotland Yard has been jammed!’

  ‘Then perhaps, once we’ve sifted through the information, we’ll have what we want.’

  ‘How soon will that be? The Commissioner is waiting, and so is the Home Secretary.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to get some preliminary indication to you by noon, sir,’ promised Stark.

  ‘Noon! That’s not good enough!’

  ‘I’ll do my best to let you have the information sooner, sir,’ said Stark.

  The telephone ringing made Benson jump. He picked up the receiver. ‘Benson.’ He frowned, put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked enquiringly at Stark. ‘It’s the switchboard. Chief Inspector Burns from Special Branch is on the line. Apparently, he’s been trying to get hold of me for a while. What does he want, do you know?’

  ‘I can guess,’ said Stark. ‘You can tell him I’ve already had a meeting with Inspector Rogers. Inspector Rogers will be able to fill him in.’ He pointed at the clock. ‘I think I’d better get on, sir, if you want that information as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ nodded Benson dismissively. Into the phone he said, ‘Put him through.’

  As Stark let himself out, he heard Benson say, ‘Chief Inspector. Sorry you’ve had trouble getting through to me; the telephone lines here have been absolutely inundated with all manner of people eager to get an update: the Home Secretary, the Commissioner …’

  Danvers was also on the phone as Stark came back into the office. He was nodding as he made notes on a pad.

  ‘That was Buckinghamshire police,’ he said as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Buckinghamshire?’ repeated Stark, intrigued.

  ‘It’s another piece in the jigsaw puzzle that suggests that our friend with the different-coloured eyes is one Christopher Richards. Although the Buckinghamshire force referred to him as the Honourable Christopher Leyton-Richards, formerly of Chalfont St Giles.’ He indicated the masses of small pieces of paper that were strewn across his desk, all with writing in different hands. ‘This is just a sample of some of the notes that were handed in at different police stations. The tip of the iceberg. I understand there are more being sent by messengers even as we speak. And that’s without the people phoning the Yard switchboard.’

  ‘Tell me about this Christopher Richards,’ said Stark. ‘What makes you so sure he’s our man?’

  ‘Because his name keeps cropping up. There are other suggestions for who the man might be, but Christopher Richards gets more votes than most.’ He lifted some of the sheets of paper, sorting through them. ‘I’m in the middle of collating the different pieces of information, trying to build him into an overall picture.’

  ‘Do we have an address for him?’

  ‘Hackney,’ said Danvers. ‘Pierce Street. I’ve sent a patrol there, but if he’s done the same as Alf Rennick and Dan Harker, he’ll be gone.’

  ‘What about Naomi Pike?’

  Danvers turned his attention to another pile of papers, and Stark realized the sergeant had sorted all the pieces of paper into four piles, one for each of the suspects, with other piles for where one or more were mentioned in the same report.

  ‘Hackney again, but a different address. Walters Place. But it’s just around the corner from Pierce Street. I’ve asked the patrol to call there, too.’ He looked at Stark. ‘According to some of these reports, Christopher and Naomi are romantically linked.’

  Why doesn’t that surprise me? thought Stark. ‘Good work. Anything on the other two?’

  ‘No sightings, but lots of tales about them. More on Dan Harker, not so many on Alf Rennick.’

  Because people genuinely liked Alf, thought Stark. They’re not going to sell him out, not even for a hundred pounds.

  ‘Get back to Christopher Richards. This business of him being … who did you say?’

  Danvers checked his notes again. ‘The Honourable Christopher Leyton-Richards, third son of Lord Hinshelwood of Hinshelwood Hall, Chalfont St Giles.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Did he serve in the war?’

  ‘There’s no mention of it.’

  ‘No, I bet there isn’t,’ said Stark bitterly. ‘Protected and kept safe at home.’

  ‘Actually, sir, I might know some people I was at school with who know the family. Shall I do some asking around, see what I can find out?’

  ‘An excellent suggestion, Sergeant.’

  The phone rang and Danvers picked it up. ‘DS Danvers.’ He held out the receiver to Stark. ‘It’s Chief Superintendent Benson for you, sir.’

  Stark took the phone. ‘Stark here, sir.’

  ‘There’s been a further meeting convened at Downing Street for this morning, Stark. An emergency meeting. As you’ve stirred this up, you’d better attend on Scotland Yard’s behalf.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Do you know who else will be attending?’

  ‘I have no idea. I expect it will be the same as last time. But tread carefully, Stark. These are important people, and our reputation is on the line.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll report back to you afterwards.’

  Benson didn’t reply; there was just a click to indicate he had hung up.

  ‘My presence is requested at Downing Street again,’ Stark told Danvers as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Will Special Branch be there?’ asked Danvers warily.

  ‘I’m glad you’re becoming aware of the politics of police work, Sergeant,’ sighed Stark. He began to gather up papers from his desk and put them into his case. How will I be viewed today at this meeting? he wondered. As the conquering hero, or the sacrificial lamb?

  The committee room at Downing Street was busier than it had been at the last meeting. More chairs had been found to go around the long table. Stark was relieved to see that on this occasion he had been placed separately from Burns and Rogers of Special Branch, although whether that was by design or accident, he didn’t know. Burns and Rogers sat several places away from him, and as Stark took his seat, he saw Rogers glaring at him, a look of sheer hatred on his face.

  He looked at the name card placed on the table in front
of the empty chair next to him. W.S. Churchill. On cue, the tall, bulky figure of Churchill entered the room and marched along the length of the table to crunch down heavily into his chair next to Stark.

  ‘Good work, Stark,’ he muttered. ‘I always said it was Bolsheviks, and now you’ve nailed them. Well done.’

  ‘We haven’t nailed them yet, sir,’ Stark whispered back. ‘They’re still out there. Still on the loose.’

  ‘But you’ve identified them and their cause,’ said Churchill. ‘You’ve put an end to all this nonsense about other political issues being behind these murders.’ As he spat out the word ‘other’, he glared along the table towards Burns and Rogers, who both pointedly turned away from his gaze.

  At least I have one ally on my side, thought Stark. And this is how political alliances are formed: my enemy’s enemy is my friend.

  The Home Secretary, Edward Shortt, entered, accompanied by two civil servants, and the three men took their seats.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Shortt greeted the gathering. ‘I will begin by asking Detective Chief Inspector Stark of Scotland Yard for an update on the identities and possible whereabouts of the suspects named in the newspapers this morning.’

  Thank heavens for those calls coming in, thought Stark as he took his papers from his briefcase.

  ‘Thank you, Home Secretary,’ he said. ‘It is now our belief, from information received, that the unnamed member of this conspiracy, the man known as “the mystery man with the different-coloured eyes”, is the Honourable Christopher Leyton-Richards, third son of Lord Hinshelwood of Hinshelwood Hall, Chalfont St Giles.’

  There was some muttering around the table at this, and unhappy looks. They don’t like the fact that one of their own turns out to be a murderous Bolshevik, thought Stark.

  ‘Led astray, would you say, Stark?’ asked one of the field marshals at the other end of the table.

  A friend of the family protecting the good name of the Hinshelwood family, reflected Stark. ‘We are still gathering information, but it would appear that the contrary is true: that Christopher Leyton-Richards, who also calls himself Christopher Richards, is the ringleader of this conspiracy. Of the others, Alfred Rennick is a former soldier I am familiar with; he served in my unit during the war.’

  ‘DCI Stark was promoted in the field,’ interrupted Churchill aggressively. ‘Captain. Won the DSM. Fought the whole war. A leader of his men.’

  ‘Thank you for that, Winston,’ said Shortt calmly. ‘Please continue, Chief Inspector.’

  Churchill’s protecting me, realized Stark. He knows that there are some here – friends of Lord Hinshelwood – who will be unhappy at what I’m saying and will want to cut me down. ‘Daniel Harker also claims to be a former soldier, although we are currently investigating his background.’ And he shot a glance at Burns and Rogers, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats. ‘In my opinion, neither of these men is a leader. Rennick was a good soldier who obeyed orders. Harker, I believe to be duplicitous, and someone who keeps a deliberately low profile, but not someone who leads. Naomi Pike used to work until recently in the offices of the British Communist Party. We believe her role there was to gather information that could be used by this Hand of Justice, in particular the names of former servicemen disaffected after the war, who might be pliable to using their skills with weapons to carry out assassinations, as happened with Lord Amersham, Tobias Smith and Walter Parrot.’

  ‘I don’t see that this puts Hinshelwood into the frame as the brains behind this,’ blustered another of the uniformed men, a brigadier. ‘I know Lord Hinshelwood. The family have always been patriots. His eldest son, Gerald, was a war hero. Died at the Somme. The younger son, Eric, badly wounded, came home an invalid.’

  ‘Then if you know the family, sir, do you have an opinion on Christopher?’ asked Stark calmly.

  The brigadier opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. ‘There’s always the chance of one rotten apple,’ he growled.

  ‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ Shortt acknowledged. He turned to Stark. ‘Do you have more for us, Chief Inspector? The suspected whereabouts of these people?’

  ‘The police are still conducting enquiries to that, sir,’ said Stark. ‘But the main cause for concern is the assassins they may have unleashed. Information we have received indicates there may be a substantial number of ex-servicemen who have been primed to continue with the kind of murders we have seen. The problem is, we don’t know who they are, or how many of them there are, and we don’t know who their actual targets are. That’s one of the reasons our search to locate Christopher Richards and Naomi Pike is so urgent: we believe they are the ones who know the targets, and the assassins.’

  ‘How many assassins do you believe are out there, Chief Inspector?’ asked Shortt.

  ‘It could be just a handful, or it could be a hundred, sir.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the table.

  Shortt addressed Burns. ‘Chief Inspector Burns, do you at Special Branch have anything further to add on these people?’

  ‘We are conducting our own enquiries, but at this moment we have little to add to what DCI Stark has reported,’ said Burns.

  Next to him, Stark heard Churchill give a low throaty chuckle at this.

  ‘Very well,’ nodded Shortt. ‘Is that all, Chief Inspector Stark?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir,’ said Stark, and, beneath the calmness of his exterior, he felt a knot in his stomach. This is where I put my career on the line and get shot down in flames. ‘But this is a suggestion, rather than information. It could take time before these people are apprehended. There is a serious danger of more assassinations being carried out by this secret army before that happens.

  ‘These men have been duped by dangerous propaganda spouted by Richards – radicalized, if you will, to fight for this cause. However, it is my view that most ex-servicemen are patriotic. We need to get a message out to these men and appeal to the same patriotism that persuaded them to serve during the war, that this is not the way forward.’

  ‘And how do you propose we send these men this message?’ asked a field marshal sarcastically.

  ‘Through the medium of the wireless,’ said Stark. ‘A voice of the nation’s authority speaking directly, urging them to stop. A live broadcast from the Marconi factory at Chelmsford.’

  Stark looked around the table and saw that his suggestion had gone down badly: some of them, especially the military ones, wore expressions of blatant disapproval, while most of the others looked puzzled or shook their heads dismissively.

  ‘There is no audience for wireless broadcasts,’ said one of the civil servants. ‘No one will hear it.’

  ‘With respect, sir, there was a great deal of interest in the first broadcast last year, the recording of Dame Nellie Melba. As I understand it, the audience for that was in the thousands.’

  ‘Yes, but there have been hardly any broadcasts since.’

  ‘That is because they have been discontinued,’ Stark pointed out.

  ‘And rightly so,’ grunted a field marshal. ‘They are dangerous. These transmissions interfere with military communications.’

  The civil servant who’d dismissed the idea earlier shook his head. ‘I repeat, there is no audience for wireless broadcasts,’ he said.

  ‘Actually, I disagree.’

  All eyes turned to the person who’d spoken, who was sitting next to Edward Shortt – one of his secretaries, Stark presumed.

  ‘There are many hundreds of wireless clubs across the nation. I know because I am a member of one, and we have a very active and keen membership. I believe this proposal has merit.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause after this. Whoever this man was, he clearly had authority.

  ‘That may be true, Sir Jocelyn,’ said a brigadier, ‘but how would these – er – wireless enthusiasts know that the transmission was happening.’

  ‘The same as with the Melba broadcast,’ said Sir Jocelyn. ‘An
announcement in the newspapers telling the people it was occurring, with details of the frequency they need to tune their receivers to.’

  Whoever Sir Jocelyn is, thank God he’s a wireless enthusiast and thank God he’s here, thought Stark.

  Edward Shortt looked at Stark and asked, ‘Are you proposing that I, in my position as Home Secretary, make a wireless broadcast to these men, urging them to stop?’

  Now we come to the contentious part, thought Stark. Aloud, he said, ‘With respect, sir, I was thinking someone … shall we say … at a higher level.’

  ‘The Prime Minister?’ scoffed Burns.

  ‘Actually, I was going to suggest someone who is not a politician, as much of the anger of these men is directed at politicians.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The King.’

  A hubbub of outrage burst out around the table at this proposal.

  ‘Unthinkable!’ said one voice.

  ‘Palpable nonsense!’

  ‘The man’s mad!’

  Keep a cool head, Stark told himself. Don’t lose your temper, or get deflected.

  ‘You’d put the King at risk!’ snapped Rogers accusingly.

  Stark shook his head. ‘Despite the rumours about Bolsheviks trying to do the same to our royal family as the Russians did to theirs – and that may be true of Christopher Richards and Naomi Pike – it is my opinion that the majority of these men have respect for the royal family, sir. They fought for king and country. I believe they will listen to him. At least, enough to prevent a wholesale massacre. And that is the alternative if we don’t do this.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not!’ snapped Burns. ‘It would be impossible to afford the King proper protection at somewhere as public as the Marconi factory.’

  ‘It could be if done by the proper people,’ said Churchill. ‘I would propose DC Stark lead a team of police bodyguards. He’s an experienced soldier, used to action, and he also knows the people we’re looking for.’

  That was not what I was expecting, or proposing, thought Stark.

  ‘Out of the question!’ snapped Burns. ‘The protection of the royal family is the responsibility of Special Branch!’