Killigrew and the Sea Devil

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘I went for a walk, that’s all.’

  ‘A walk?’

  ‘Yes, a walk. I thought it would help to clear my head.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘It had, until you grabbed me like that.’

  ‘Sorry. You might have left me a note to let me know where you’d gone. For all I knew, you were being tortured in a dungeon somewhere.’

  Her glowering expression turned to one of delight. ‘You were worried about me!’

  ‘Of course!’

  She reached out to touch his cheek tenderly. ‘I am sorry. You are right; I should have left a note. It was thoughtless of me not to.’

  He removed his glove: her teeth had torn the kid leather, but the skin beneath, although marked, was not broken. He massaged his palm ruefully. ‘You were right about one thing, at any rate: you do know how to look after yourself.’

  She took off her coat and hung it in the wardrobe. ‘Did you speak to Professor Forselius?’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Wojtkiewicz’s hunch was right: he is a member of the Wolves of Suomi; or connected to them somehow, at least. Not that I could get him to admit as much straight out, even after I’d told him who I was.’

  ‘He probably thought you were a Third Section agent, trying to trap him. What makes you so sure he is not working for Third Section?’

  Killigrew grimaced. ‘I doubt it, if he was sent to Siberia. Sometimes you have to take things on trust.’

  ‘Not in this business.’

  He looked at her, frowning. ‘You’re starting to sound like an expert in espionage.’

  ‘I am a quick study.’ She unpinned her hair and shook her head so that her long, chestnut locks spilled fetchingly across her shoulders.

  The sound of a cannon shattered the quiet of the night. Killigrew dashed across to the window. His reasons for choosing the bridal suite of the finest hotel in Helsingfors as his base of operations were not entirely hedonistic: the window offered as good a view of Sveaborg as that in any hotel in the city.

  He peered out in time to see more muzzle flashes from the Russian batteries in the distance, followed a couple of seconds later by their reports. He could not make out much else in the darkness.

  ‘Put the light out!’ he hissed at Anzhelika.

  She turned the oil-lamp off. ‘What is it? Has the bombardment started?’

  He cupped a hand against the glass to peer out, but could see little in the darkness outside. The echoes of the last shot faded in the night, and were not replaced. ‘Whatever it was, it’s over now,’ he told her. ‘Only one of the Russian batteries firing, I think. Most likely a false alarm.’

  In the faint moonlight coming through the window, he saw she was not convinced, but when another minute passed without any more shots being heard, she relaxed visibly. ‘What now? Will Professor Forselius help you get in touch with the Wolves of Suomi?’

  ‘He didn’t say so, but I got the impression he’d try. Their curiosity’s bound to be piqued by a man claiming to be a British spy. I told Forselius where we’re staying. For now, the ball’s very much in their court.’

  ‘So now we wait.’

  He nodded. ‘Shall I order us some supper?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I thought the walk would help me work up an appetite, but it doesn’t seem to have worked.’

  Smiling, he took her in his arms. ‘Well, perhaps we can find some other way for you to work up an appetite, Fru Johansson…’

  * * *

  Killigrew was awoken by a knock at the door to his hotel room. He reached under the pillow for his revolver. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Chambermaid, min herre.’

  ‘You couldn’t come back in half an hour, could you?’

  ‘Yes, min herre.’ He heard her footsteps padding down the corridor to the next room.

  He took Wojtkiewicz’s fob watch from the bedside cabinet and flicked it open – nearly half-past ten, daylight was wasting – before turning to smile down at Anzhelika’s sleeping head on the pillow beside him. He adored foreign women: most Englishwomen he knew were brought up by their mothers to believe that sex was something shameful, to be done only between husband and wife, and then only to be suffered by the woman as part of her marital duties. If Anzhelika was anything to go by, Russian women had a very different attitude to such things.

  He crawled out of bed and washed and shaved himself thoroughly in cold water from the washstand, moving quietly so as not to disturb Anzhelika, but in vain.

  ‘You’re up,’ she remarked sleepily.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning to you too.’ She yawned and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  He started to get dressed. ‘I thought I’d go out and get some coffee at that cafe on the promenade. It’s a glorious day, we could have breakfast on the terrace.’

  ‘All right. Give me a chance to get dressed, and I will see you there.’

  ‘By all means.’

  He left the room and made his way downstairs, stopping at the reception on his way out of the hotel, but there were still no messages for Herre Johansson. Mildly disappointed, he left the hotel and strolled up the promenade in search of a newspaper vendor. Purchasing a Swedish-language newspaper, he took a table on the cafe’s terrace and ordered a coffee from a waiter. He smoked a cheroot and read the paper while he waited. The news was all about the Allied fleet, which was hardly news, and the price of herrings, which was certainly news to Killigrew, if not particularly interesting.

  He glanced at the other people sitting at the tables around him. A young couple gazed adoringly into one another’s eyes, a trio of young women gossiped, and at another table an elderly man with a military bearing and a bristling grey moustache sat with an intense-looking youth who wore a student’s cap. Killigrew frowned: somehow they did not go together. The man with the moustache seemed too old to be the student’s father, too young to be his grandfather. They sat there not talking, the military man placidly smoking a pipe and staring off into space while the student pored over a book; one might have thought they were strangers who had been obliged to share a table, but there were plenty of empty tables.

  Killigrew shook his head. He told himself he was jumping at shadows. It was a beautiful day, and even with the Allied fleet anchored a couple of miles off the coast, the war seemed a long, long way away. All he could do for now was wait for the Wolves of Suomi to contact him. If he did not hear from them by nightfall, he was going to have to act alone: he could not be sure the Russians would hold off using the Sea Devil for a third night in a row. Even if they did contact him, there was no guarantee they would agree to help. He wondered if he could get away with stealing a rowboat after dark – or at least what passed for darkness in Helsingfors at the beginning of August – and trying to find out where they kept the Sea Devil. But if the worst came to the worst and he did not return, where would that leave Anzhelika? He shook his head: perhaps he could offload her – albeit temporarily – into the care of the Wolves of Suomi. But in the meantime, there was no reason why he should not relax and enjoy himself, provided he did not let his guard drop too much.

  He heard footsteps behind him and started to twist in his seat as Anzhelika bent to give him a peck on the cheek before sitting down opposite him. They ate a hearty breakfast, Killigrew paid, and then the two of them began walking along the promenade.

  ‘Should we not go back inside?’ Anzhelika asked him as they passed the hotel. ‘If the Wolves of Suomi want to contact you…’

  ‘If the Wolves of Suomi want to contact me, I think they’ll manage to find me.’

  They made their way back to the south downs. The crowds of the previous day were no longer there, although it was still early. Even so, there were a few people out: some come to view the fleet, others merely out for a morning’s constitutional. Seeing several men there with telescopes and opera glasses (they were always men), Killigrew took out his own miniature telescope and gave the fleet the once-over. All ships were present and corre
ct. Perhaps there was something wrong with the Sea Devil; perhaps there was no need for him to get into Sveaborg after all.

  But he knew that if he gave up now, and that night the Sea Devil succeeded in sinking one of the Allied ships, he would not be able to live with himself. He had not come this far to quit now. Besides, the fleet was more than two and a half miles out from Sveaborg: that was a long way for a vessel travelling underwater, all but blind; and why should the Russians try it, when they knew that sooner or later the fleet would have to move in closer to get within range for the bombardment? Perhaps that was why the Sea Devil had not yet attacked; perhaps that was all the Russians were waiting for.

  He turned his miniature telescope on Sveaborg once more, studying the defences, looking for a way in. The three outermost islands bristled with the guns of countless batteries, but perhaps there was a way in via one of the inner islands, Little Svarto or East Svarto. There was a small, rocky islet between the nearest island – West Svarto – and the shore below where he stood. Dredging his memory, he came up with its name: Langhorn. From the shore to Langhorn was a swim of about two hundred and fifty yards, and a similar distance on the other side to West Svarto, except that there he would be swimming beneath the guns of a Russian two-decker moored across the channel as a floating battery. If he made the crossing when the tide was on the turn, the current would not be too great; the tides in the Baltic were negligible anyway. Perhaps it could be done under cover of darkness; not that there was much in the way of darkness at this latitude at this time of year, and that did not last long. But assuming he managed to swim out to West Svarto and somehow creep past the shore batteries? There was a lot of ground to cover between the five islands. Although four of them were linked by bridges he was sure to bump into a patrol while he was searching, and with soaking wet clothes he would attract suspicion at once.

  He realised he was already in danger of attracting suspicion: Sveaborg looked no different than it usually did, and everyone else on the downs that morning was staring at the Allied fleet. Realising he had been staring at the islands for too long, he turned away. There were plenty of other people in the park whose suspicions might have been aroused. The young man in a student cap who loitered nearby, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his pea jacket…

  The same student who had been sitting a couple of tables away from him at breakfast.

  Killigrew looked around. Sure enough, there was the military man, smoking his pipe on a bench. There was such a thing as coincidence, but this was stretching it a little too far.

  Anzhelika sensed the change in his mood. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Don’t look now, but we’ve picked up a couple of shadows.’ He started to walk unhurriedly back the way they had come, towards the city centre.

  She had self-restraint enough not to look around. ‘Third Section?’ she whispered nervously.

  ‘They don’t look like Third Section agents.’

  ‘Not all Third Section agents wear fur hats and leather greatcoats. They employ occasional spies who could be anyone: young, old, male, female, rich, poor. Anyone they can put pressure on to do their bidding. Besides, who else would they be?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re Wolves of Suomi.’

  ‘Then why do they not approach you?’

  ‘They’re probably wondering if hordes of Third Section agents will manifest themselves the moment they do.’

  She grimaced. ‘I do not know about you, but all this tiptoeing around is starting to wear on my nerves.’

  ‘Agreed. Keep walking back towards the city centre. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To stir things up a little.’ He peeled away from her, cutting across the grass to intercept the military man, who just happened to be walking on a parallel path to theirs.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  The military man seemed to snap out of a deep reverie. ‘Yes?’

  Killigrew produced a cheroot. ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a light?’

  ‘Certainly.’ The military man struck a match and Killigrew cupped his hands around the flame to light his cheroot.

  ‘Much obliged. You wouldn’t happen to be interested in geology, would you?’

  The military man’s reaction was interesting, but not in the way Killigrew had hoped it would be. ‘So that’s the signal you people are using these days, is it?’

  Killigrew grinned uneasily. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Filthy young pup! I don’t care what your sort gets up to behind closed doors, but I wish you didn’t insist on cruising for trade in public places. There are children present, for God’s sake!’

  ‘My apologies.’ Killigrew backed off. ‘I mistook you for someone else.’

  ‘I’ll say you did,’ the military man snorted in disgust. ‘Someone… or something.’

  Killigrew hurried after Anzhelika and caught up with her on the road back into town. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, just me making a fool of myself, as usual.’

  They had not walked more than a hundred yards along the road when a carriage overhauled them and a rough-looking man jumped out in their path. He produced a pistol and waved it at them both.

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you wouldn’t happen to be interested in geology, would you?’

  ‘Get a move on!’ snarled the man.

  Chapter 18

  The Wolves of Suomi

  Someone pulled a rough sack over Killigrew’s head the moment he climbed inside the carriage. He heard Anzhelika cry out in alarm as she was subjected to the same indignity. Then the blinds on the windows were snapped down, and someone sat next to him, jabbing what felt suspiciously like the muzzle of a pistol in his side. The carriage door slammed, the man next to him shouted something to the driver and they jolted off over the rutted track. Killigrew was made to twist round, and his hands were grabbed and tied behind his back.

  They must have been in the carriage for at least a quarter of an hour, but Killigrew sensed they were constantly doubling back on themselves to shake off any followers, so it seemed unlikely they could have gone more than a couple of miles. More to the point, he could hear the clop and rattle of other carriages, and the cries of street vendors proclaiming their wares, so he guessed they were still in Helsingfors.

  When they pulled up the sounds of the streets were still audible, but muffled now, as if on the other side of some houses. He heard the door click open, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder.

  ‘Out!’

  With the muzzle of a pistol in the small of his back, he climbed out of the carriage. Unable to see, and with his hands bound, he stepped gingerly on what felt like cobbles. Impatiently, someone grabbed him by the shoulders from behind and turned him slightly, thrusting him forward. He tripped and stumbled over something – a threshold? – and then found himself being pushed up a flight of carpeted steps. A door was opened at the top, he was marched a short distance with someone’s hand on his arm. Someone else rapped at a door.

  ‘Come in!’ a man’s voice called in Swedish.

  The door was opened, Killigrew was swung round by the hand on his arm, and he was pushed forward.

  ‘Stand there!’ another voice growled.

  The door was closed behind them.

  ‘Is this him?’

  ‘Yes, min herre.’

  ‘All right, let’s have a look at them.’

  The sack was whipped off Killigrew’s head. He found himself standing in the middle of a comfortable-looking withdrawing room where a fire crackled in the hearth. A blond, square-jawed man in his mid-forties sat opposite him in an armchair, his fingers steepled, while the student and the gentleman with the military mustachios stood behind his chair, flanking him. The military gentleman had a revolver in his hand, and it was levelled at Killigrew. Anzhelika stood on Killigrew’s right, a sack still over her head until the rough-looking fellow pulled it off from behind
, leaving her standing there blinking, her dark hair tousled. He backed off and tugged a pistol from his belt, levelling it.

  ‘The Wolves of Suomi, I presume?’ Killigrew said in Swedish.

  ‘We’ll ask the questions here!’ snarled the rough-looking man.

  The seated man held up a hand for silence. ‘Well, Nils?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from Killigrew’s face. ‘Is it him?’

  The student moved in front of the chair to peer at Killigrew’s face more closely. ‘It could be. If it is, he’s fleshed out a bit since then, but that’s to be expected. There’s one way to be sure, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He should have five parallel scars on his back.’

  ‘Take a look, Hjorth.’

  The rough-looking man handed his pistol to Nils and unbuttoned Killigrew’s frock-coat, waistcoat and shirt. Moving behind him, he tugged his collar back and down roughly, exposing his back. Then he spun Killigrew around so they could see the scars on his back for themselves.

  ‘It is him!’ Nils exclaimed joyfully.

  ‘Untie him,’ ordered the man in the armchair.

  Hjorth produced a large, wicked-looking knife and spun Killigrew around again, cutting through the bonds on his wrists.

  ‘Lieutenant Christopher Killigrew of the Royal Navy,’ remarked the man in the armchair.

  Killigrew massaged his chafed wrists. ‘My friends call me Kit. You have the advantage of me, min herre.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ The man rose to his feet and proffered a hand. ‘I’m Friherre Per Stålberg. This is Major Lindström, Jost Hjorth and Nils Nordenskjöld.’ He indicated the man with the military mustachios, the rough-looking fellow and the student in turn.

  Killigrew shook hands with him. Stålberg’s grip was firm and strong.

  ‘It’s lucky for you Nils is fascinated by Arctic exploration,’ the friherre continued, indicating Nordenskjöld. ‘He thought he recognised you at the cafe from your picture in the Illustrated Helsingfors News. The scars on your back clinch it.’