by V M Knox
Alighting from the train, he stepped onto the platform and made his way to the station forecourt. It surprised him that Cambridge Railway Station was not more crowded. He glanced at the station clock. Nine. It would be dark soon but he wondered if Morris may still be at the police station. Crossing the street he caught a bus into town.
Entering St Andrew’s Street Police Station, Clement enquired if Morris was still there. The young constable nodded. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’
A moment later Clement took the stairs to the first floor. He knocked at Morris’s door.
‘Enter.’
Clement went inside. ‘What news, Arthur?’
‘We’ve located the car and its owner. I’ve also sent a message to the Abbey School to have the boy sent home for the foreseeable future. Hetherington will arrange it. How did you get on?’
Clement told Morris about his theory concerning the burn on the man in Morris’s mortuary.
‘Hitler Youth?’
‘Could be. There was a man I met some months ago in Caithness who had a tattoo on his upper right arm. That man is now dead. Hanged for treason. The burn on our man could have been a rather harsh and perhaps hasty method of removing a similar tattoo. Also, two encrypted radio transmissions were picked up on the night of January thirty-first followed by another two at dawn the following morning. Unfortunately we don’t know what either was about. What about the telephone boxes in Ramsey?’
‘There are two in Ramsey. Neither are near the ruined gatehouse but that doesn’t exclude them if he used the telephone before disposing of the suitcase. There are no telephone boxes on the road east out of Ramsey. I got in touch with the telephone operator in Ramsey. She stated that she never listens to calls. I’m not so sure. But I feel certain if she had overheard a suspicious conversation, she would be the first to report it. It’s more likely that Smith would know this and would use a pre-arranged coded sentence. I am still waiting to hear about the pond.’
‘So, he may not have used a public telephone at all. And the car?’
‘Very interesting. Apparently, these cars are custom made; for the select few and very expensive. One matching the description the boy gave us is owned by a prominent family in these parts. Of course, they don’t have a criminal record so we have nothing on file.’
‘Name?’
‘Armstrong. Sir Hector and the Lady Helena Armstrong.’
‘Gentry?’
‘She is, daughter of an earl. Spends most of her time in the south of France, so I’m told. Sir Hector was knighted for services to industry. Both mix in affluent circles. Not necessarily together.’
‘His profession?’
‘Extremely successful businessman. Timber yards, specifically. Supplies the railways with sleepers. Needless to say, he’s doing well at present.’
‘Any family?’
‘One son, Hugh Armstrong. Has a position in the family firm so exempt from service.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Have you interviewed him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’ll ask London about them first. Then depending on what we learn, it may be best if I were to find digs in Cambridge for the short term. Any news yet about the soil in our man’s trouser turn-ups?’
‘We should have the report first thing tomorrow.’
‘And Jakobs’s parachute?’
‘No sign of tampering. I checked it myself. Did you learn anything useful from Jakobs?’
Clement sat in the chair in front of Morris. There was a lot he couldn’t tell Morris about, including the other German spies now working for MI5, but he couldn’t see any reason why Morris couldn’t know about the Abwehr man.
‘And Jakobs is adamant this man didn’t jump?’ Morris asked.
‘Says not, but…’ Clement shook his head then ran his hand around his neck. He felt tired. ‘I got the impression he may have known who the man was.’
‘Did Jakobs say anything else?’ Morris asked.
‘He mentioned that he’d tripped and damaged his foot prior to leaving the plane. Landing just made it worse. The commandant says he will have another talk with Jakobs and telephone me here if he learns anything useful.’
‘If Jakobs did recognise this man wouldn’t that suggest he was someone well-known, a public figure perhaps?’
‘I think that is a very real possibility,’ Clement said, stifling a yawn. Outside the twilight was descending, the translucent light casting a glow over the buildings. ‘Do you know, Arthur, the colonel told me that it was Jakobs’s first ever jump. He’d never even done a practice drop prior to his flight to England! It begs the question; why would the Abwehr select Jakobs for the job, then give him no parachute training and send an Abwehr officer with him to make sure he went?’
‘You think they expected Jakobs to be caught?’ Morris paused.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘His foot. Did Jakobs really trip on leaving the Heinkel or did the Abwehr man deliberately trip him to cause an injury?’
Morris frowned but didn’t respond.
Clement went on. ‘There may have been a plan to kill him on landing which they didn’t need to implement. Or, they could have believed he’d be caught either there or in the vicinity. His capture would deflect any further inquiry into other events in the fields that night.’ Clement realised another possibility that he didn’t mention to Morris; Snow the double agent sent to meet Jakobs may have been ordered by his Nazi handlers to kill him.
Morris raised his eyebrows. ‘They were right about that. So, not just a decoy then but also a scapegoat!’ Morris leaned back in his chair. ‘Someone who would be captured and, should the body in the copse ever be found, charged with murder as well as espionage. Feasible. And clever! How soon can you have the information on the Armstrongs?’
‘If I call now then they should have something for us tomorrow morning. Would you mind, Arthur, if I was to sit quietly somewhere until you’re ready to leave? So much has happened and there is something from the past that is troubling me about all of this. I’d just like to think it through.’
‘Of course. There’s a meeting room next door here. And there’s a telephone there. If you need to place a call just give the number to the constable on duty.’ Morris got up and opened a side door into the next room. ‘I’ll get Sergeant Kendall to bring you some tea and a biscuit, if we have one. Take all the time you need. You’re welcome to stay with me again tonight. I’m waiting on a report from the pathologist about another case that will take about an hour, then we can leave.’
Clement smiled and went into the adjacent room, Morris closing the door behind him. It was a similar room to Morris’s office in size but where Arthur had a large desk and several armchairs, this room had one long table and ten chairs neatly placed around it. On the end wall was a portrait of King George and Queen Elizabeth and beneath it a telephone on a long narrow side table. At the other end, the evening light filtered into the room from a similarly large window to the one in Morris’s office.
Clement went to the window and looked down on the passers-by of Cambridge. A few minutes later he heard the soft tap on the door to the corridor and the sergeant he recognised from the duty desk entered carrying a tray with tea for one. ‘Thank you. Are you Sergeant Kendall?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kendall said, putting the tray on the table.
Clement smiled at the affable sergeant but already his mind was distracted. He didn’t even hear Kendall leave the room. Several minutes later, Clement poured the warm tea then, walking over to the telephone, lifted the receiver and gave the constable the London number for Nora Ballantyne in Whitehall.
A woman’s voice answered but Clement knew it wasn’t Nora.
‘Could I speak with Nora Ballantyne, please?’ Clement asked. ‘Major Wisdom speaking.’
‘She isn’t in this evening, Major Wisdom. I am acquainted with your current mission. Can I help? Joan Cunningham speaking.’<
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‘Could you do some digging on a prominent family in Cambridgeshire?’
‘Of course. Their name?’
‘Sir Hector and the Lady Helena Armstrong. And their son, Hugh.’
‘I’ll check and get back to you, Major,’ Joan said. ‘Where can I reach you?’
‘Cambridge Police Station. Any idea how long it will take?’ Clement asked, checking his watch. It was almost dark.
‘If they are known to us, I will call you back within the hour. Otherwise tomorrow at the latest.’
Thanking the woman, Clement rang off. Sitting in a chair by the window, he closed his eyes. As far as he could tell there were two lines of enquiry. The first was with Jakobs and whether or not his arrival had anything at all to do with the dead man in Morris’s mortuary. The second issue had to do with the Armstrongs. Opening his eyes Clement stared at a patch of mould growing on the ceiling. He wondered if the Abwehr man had deliberately hindered Jakobs leaving the aeroplane. That, and a heavy, inexperienced landing had rendered the man immobile. Jakobs would be in pain and his attention on his injury. His capture provided the distraction needed for another to remain unobserved. And that for Clement was the sole reason Jakobs had been sent. Reporting on the British weather around the local airfields was Jakobs’s cover story. Clement remembered the other captured spy, Richter. Colonel Stephens had said Jakobs knew Richter in Germany but Richter’s mission was to make contact with another spy known to MI5 as Tate. Was there a connection between Tate and the Abwehr man? And why was Richter carrying so much money?
The telephone ringing startled him. He checked his watch. Nearly ten o’clock. If it was Joan Cunningham she must have called in many favours to get a response this quickly. He crossed the room and lifted the receiver.
‘Major?’
‘Go ahead Miss Cunningham.’
‘They are known to us so it was a fairly straightforward search. Have you ever heard of the Right Club?’
Clement frowned. He had heard of the right-wing secret society with Nazi leanings formed before the outbreak of war but he understood it hadn’t lasted long. Not long enough to do any lasting damage, except, perhaps, for some of its members. The Service had swiftly infiltrated the organisation and its members had either been arrested, interned or cautioned. ‘I thought it had disbanded?’
‘Officially, yes. They were decidedly pro-Nazi before the war but if they are reforming, the Armstrong family and quite a few others from our own upper classes should be carefully monitored. With the war not going well for us currently, Britain would be a fertile bed for discontent.’
‘But surely now, in view of Germany’s failure to invade last summer, few can still hold to these beliefs?’
‘People are tired of being bombed, Major. A negotiated settlement with Germany would, for many, have considerable appeal. It won’t happen. The Prime Minister is adamant about that.’
Clement stared at his feet, his mind racing.
‘Are you still there, Major?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Could you do something else for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Find me a reason to reside in one of the Cambridge Colleges; research study for something. And something else, Miss Cunningham? Could you find someone for me? I think I’m going to need some trustworthy eyes.’
Replacing the telephone receiver, he drew the chair closer to the window and sat, sipping his tea, the muted sounds of the street below the only noise. Night had descended. Clement sighed remembering former times when he used to sit with Mary in their garden in the long twilights. The memories belonged to another life, one now gone and never to return. A car horn below made his thoughts reluctantly return to the present. Hugh Armstrong, if that was Smith’s true identify, had gone to a field in Cambridgeshire to collect someone, possibly the Abwehr man who had killed the man in Morris’s mortuary. Why? And why had Armstrong used such a distinctive car? Was it just so a man with a moustache and dark hair would recognise his contact? Was there another reason? A moment later Clement dashed from the room. Opening the door to Morris’s office without knocking, he burst in. ‘Have you sent anyone to question Hugh Armstrong?’
Morris laid some papers on his desk and looked up. ‘One of my detective constables is to speak to him tomorrow morning, Clement. What concerns you?’
‘Find another reason for the meeting; parking infringements, noise, public nuisance, anything but do not ask why he was in Ramsey last January.’
‘Your reasoning being?’
‘It’s a warning system, Arthur. It’s how they’ll know their activities have been discovered.’
Chapter 8
Monday 2nd June 1941
It was just after two when Clement walked towards the wide front door of Trinity Hall College, a brown leather suitcase in his hand. The previous weekend, he’d returned to Oxford to collect some more clothing, to cancel his milk and newspaper deliveries and to inform Mrs Warrender that he wouldn’t be needing her services for a few weeks. Returning to Cambridge on the Sunday, he’d spent the afternoon becoming familiar with the city and getting to know the layout of the streets and lanes. He’d also memorised the college names and locations, especially those around Trinity Hall.
Miss Cunningham, through Johnny’s extensive network of contacts, had arranged for him to do research at Trinity Hall on Augustine of Hippo’s writings on St Paul’s Letter to The Romans and the Doctrine of Grace. Whilst the topic was of genuine interest to Clement, he knew there would be no time for study.
Clement knocked at the porter’s lodge. An elderly man, perhaps in his seventies wearing rimless glasses, with thinning hair and sallow skin was seated behind a desk. He looked up as Clement entered then removed his glasses.
‘How do you do,’ Clement said. ‘I am Reverend Clement Wisdom. I understand you are expecting me?’
The porter checked a book on his desk then stood. ‘Yes. Welcome to Trinity Hall, Reverend. I’ve given you a quiet room in Thorton. I thought it unlikely you’d wish to share living quarters with youngsters.’ The porter collected a key from a pigeon hole behind the desk. ‘Go straight through Front Court then under the arch; Hall, where you take your meals is on your left, then follow the path past the library and down to your right. Go past Gatehouse Building to Thorton and take the last staircase. Your room is on the top floor on the right. There’s a nice view of the river there.’
‘Thank you. That’s most kind. May I know your name?’ Clement said, handing over his ration book.
‘William Hayward. But everyone calls me, Old Bill, on account of me being here for forty years. Just ask me if you don’t know where anything is.’
Clement smiled and took the proffered key. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing you frequently then.’ Bending, he picked up his suitcase. ‘Are you the only porter here at Trinity Hall?’
‘Oh no. There’s three of us as well as two part-time assistants. We rotate the shifts so there’s always someone here.’
Clement smiled and left the lodge. He breathed in the summer air, the colour of the grass in Front Court like emeralds in the afternoon sun. The centuries-old stone buildings surrounded him. It seemed to Clement that once inside the old university buildings, the war ceased to exist. Staying on the path, he crossed the courtyard, noticing the chapel on his left before finally finding Thorton. His staircase was near the river and beside a gardener’s store.
Climbing the stairs, Clement opened the door to his room. It was small with whitewashed walls and the smallest of gas heaters wedged into a pre-existing fireplace. To one side of it was a faded, red velvet upholstered Victorian armchair and above the mantelpiece hung a mirror. In the corner of the room was the bed and beside it a table and chair. A wardrobe stood to his left. Lifting the suitcase onto the bed, he unpacked his few clothes and placed a Bible on the table along with a notebook and pen. Checking the stairwell again, he glanced at the door opposite wondering if anyone was there. He knocked but no one opened it. Returning to his room, he closed his do
or to the stairwell and locked it. Standing in the middle of the room, he scanned the walls and floor, his gaze resting on the fireplace. Kneeling in front of it, he manoeuvred the gas heater out of the fireplace then ran his fingers along the inside edge of the mantelpiece, feeling for the brick ledge. It was narrow but he hoped sufficiently wide enough to hide his pistol. Taking his Welrod and ammunition from his suitcase, he placed them into the holster and secreted both on the brick ledge before replacing the heater. Closing the door to his room, he then placed a thread over the lintel. With his gun concealed in the fireplace, he left the building.
Standing on the Memorial Terrace he gazed at the river. To his right was the gardener’s shed and behind it a bridge crossed the Cam River. In the other direction, the river curved around to the next college. In front of him and across the steady-flowing river was the large grassy area known as The Backs. Below him, a short flight of stone steps descended from the terrace into the river. Clement turned and walked back along the path. He stopped by a large tree, his gaze on the Gatehouse arch. Clement guessed it accessed the lane behind the college. He walked towards it. At the rear of the arch were two gates; a large one for vehicles, a smaller one for pedestrians. Both were locked. Clement returned to the path, walking back towards the main entrance. Passing the porter’s lodge, he waved to Bill Hayward.
