by V M Knox
Clement breathed a sigh of relief. The light was a signal for Isabel to find her way home in the dark. Keeping back, Clement cut across the fields, heading slightly east of Isabel and her destination. Ten minutes later he pushed his way through a narrow strip of woodland then up a steep embankment before jumping over a low stone wall to a road beyond. Waiting there, he saw her higher up the street opening a gate to a cottage where a curtain had been lifted showing a sliver of light. She went inside. The curtain fell into place. It was dark again.
Clement looked back over the fields he had just crossed. He couldn’t see the house now and the fire had evidently been extinguished. He listened to the sounds on the night air but no man-made noise came to him. A little further along the road he saw the outline of several larger dwellings clustered together. Hurrying towards the buildings he looked up at the sign above an inn door; The Bridge.
He went in, the welcome warmth radiating towards him. Inside was a small front room with an L-shaped bar. Men filled the cramped space, by their clothes, farmworkers. The conversation ceased as Clement approached.
‘You don’t look so good. You been in a fight?’ the barman said.
Clement shook his head. ‘Got lost and fell into a ditch,’ he said, indicating his sodden clothes.
‘If you’d like a drink, you’ll need to be quick. I was about to close up.’
‘I’d be grateful.’
‘I’ve got a room if you need it? Where have you come from?’ the barman asked, pulling a beer and placing it on the counter.
‘I don’t know this pub,’ Clement said, putting some coins on the bar.
‘Then you don’t know Waterbeach,’ the barman said. ‘We are the only pub this side of the river for miles.’
Clement turned around. Everyone was staring at him. All, Clement decided, were farmers. They wore the heavy warm clothes of an outdoor life and had the florid skin of years spent working out of doors in all weathers. Several dogs lay beside the hearth, too tired to even stir as he entered the room.
‘The barman asked you a question?’ a large man said, stepping forward. A dog’s head lifted.
Clement held the man’s stare. In his opinion, no one in the room gave the impression of supporting a far-right political conspiracy. Neither had they thought it necessary to assist with a burning barn about a mile away but he wasn’t taking any chances. ‘I’m a guest at a house further up river,’ Clement said. ‘I went out for a walk and I’ve become hopelessly lost. And now it’s raining. As you see, I’ve fallen a few times,’ Clement said, ‘They’re probably looking for me now. If I could use your telephone?’
‘In the hall. Local calls only, sorry,’ the barman said, nodding in the direction of a door.
Clement downed the drink and left the bar. He guessed he had somewhere between five and ten minutes before his whereabouts would become known. Standing in the hall, he dialled Morris’s home telephone number.
‘Superintendent Morris speaking?’
Clement hung up. He checked his watch. He’d already been at The Bridge too long. Any minute now he expected the Scot and his dogs to burst into the place. He returned to the bar. ‘They’re on their way,’ he said to the barman. ‘Thanks for the drink. Hopefully the rain has abated. I’ll wait outside. And thanks for the use of the telephone.’
‘Where did you say you’d come from?’ the publican asked.
Clement turned. ‘A house on the river just outside Cambridge.’
‘Which side of the lock?’
‘Cambridge side,’ he gambled. Clement watched the faces. He didn’t know about a lock so he hoped he sounded convincing. He looked around the faces. While he thought it unlikely these men were involved with Armstrong, he wasn’t in any doubt that for the price of a drink they would tell anyone who asked about him. ‘It doesn’t have a name,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m a guest of the Master of Caius.’ Clement watched for a reaction but he didn’t see any. He reached for the door handle.
Closing the door on the pub, he listened for the dogs. He could hear the barking but they were some distance away. He breathed in the cool night air. His eye was painful and his shoulder numb. Rubbing his aching arm, he walked towards the stone wall and sat on it in case anyone in the pub was watching. He waited a further two minutes then turned, his gaze on the pub entrance. The curtains over the front windows were still drawn and no one from the pub had followed him outside. Swinging his legs over the wall, he jumped down and ran back across the road, skirting the inn. Crossing the grass, he headed towards the river.
The Bridge, so Clement had learned from Morris, was about eight miles downstream from Cambridge. Morris had told him to take a rowboat from the jetty and row upstream to Horningsea on the other side of The Cam where he would meet him within the hour. Clement crouched under a low hedge by the river. The riverbank was low and in the strong moonlight he could see several rowboats were tied up to a small platform at the edge of the water. Choosing the smallest, he crept onto the jetty and untied the dinghy then stepped aboard. Using an oar, he pushed the boat away from the bank then sitting, quietly placed the oars into the rowlocks. He pulled on the oars, wincing with the pain in his shoulder.
The river wasn’t especially fast flowing but with his recent injuries, every stroke sent a stab of pain through his neck and shoulder. As he rounded a bend under Clayhithe Bridge, The Bridge disappeared from his view. No one had come after him.
He dipped the oars into the silent waters. Everything about his current mission disturbed him. Loose ends. Things from the past and the astounding things he’d overheard. At least he now knew how his adversaries had always been a step ahead of him. If he had not seen Bainbridge with his own eyes he would never have believed the man capable of such treachery.
Bainbridge had evidently been watching Clement’s every move since he arrived in Oxford. Clement thought of the notes he’d left for him saying when and for how long he’d be away. Clement recalled the day of Morris’s call. Bainbridge had been absent that morning. Clement shook his head in disbelief. Bainbridge must have alerted someone local to keep him under surveillance. He thought of the people on the bus: women with shopping baskets and children, airmen and an elderly academic. While Bainbridge’s involvement astonished him, it was nothing in comparison to Hector Armstrong. There was a truly evil man who thought nothing of manipulating others to commit murder and kidnap and who knew what else. Clement shivered. Hector Armstrong was chilling but his words were more so and Clement’s fears about a connection with his mission in Caithness had been vindicated, even to a knowledge of Clement’s former cover name. That small detail had been passed on to others in the network and it told Clement that his movements had been watched for months.
The realisation made him feel sick and naive. Old Red Sandstone. Without that discovery he would still be stumbling around. The police pathologist had said the stone was used for buildings and monuments. Monuments like headstones for graves, perhaps? Glasgow both then and now still held secrets. And he needed to know the answers.
He listened to the night and the rhythmic sound of the oars in their rowlocks, breathing out with each stroke, trying to build up some momentum against the current. His head throbbed. He pushed the pain from his thoughts, his mind dwelling on the conversation he’d overheard. Something was imminent and he’d overheard the names of two of the most infamous men of the Nazi regime along with another German; a man named Haushofer who had been arrested by the Gestapo. Did that fact make him friend or foe? Clement didn’t know. He wanted to speak with Colonel Stephens and hear what he’d learned from Jakobs. If Jakobs was proving uncooperative, perhaps mentioning Haushofer’s name would elicit a response. A long breath escaped his lips as he rowed, his mind distracted from the throbbing pain in his head and shoulder.
He leaned into the rowing, the moonlight casting its intense glow over black waters. With every stroke, Clement felt the tangle of conspiracy; overwhelming and far-reaching. This was more than embedding a few spies or the resurgence of a
far-right group. This had taken years to establish and involved every echelon of society. From Shetland to Cambridgeshire and Oxford and who knew where else. And, it included the enemy, and not just any low-ranking official but the two highest ranking officers of the Third Reich. Clement’s mind dwelt on the man smoking on Armstrong’s front porch. He didn’t know who this man was but he was convinced this was not the same man Michael had seen in the Lagonda. His English was that of a native speaker, and a well-educated one at that. And his hair was grey not dark. If this grey-haired man was someone else, was Herr Abwehr this Haushofer?
A light wind wrapped around his body and he began to shiver. He felt chilled to the core from wet clothes and realised deception. He took a deep breath and kept his mind focused on the rhythmic action of the oars. In the moonlight he saw the spire, black, pointing like a dagger against the night sky. At the river’s edge he saw Morris’s silhouette standing on a jetty. Standing with him was a familiar figure.
Chapter 18
Sunday 8th June 1941
‘God’s teeth, Clement! What’s happened to you?’ Reg asked, helping him from the dinghy.
‘Long story. I hope you came by car, Arthur?’
‘I’ll get you to a doctor.’
‘Thank you, but not yet. No one in this area can see me.’ Clement turned to Reg. ‘Destroy that dinghy, would you, Reg. No explosives, just put a hole in it. A big one.’
‘Got it!’
Reg reached for his pack, then swinging it onto his shoulder left Clement and Morris standing by the jetty. In the moonlight Clement saw Reg pull the dinghy from the water. Using his Fairbairn-Sykes knife, Reg sliced along the dinghy’s timbers, prising the wooden beams apart until a large gap appeared between the planks. Returning the craft to the water, Reg placed two large stones from the riverbank into the hull and pushed the boat out into the stream, waiting for gravity to take effect.
The dinghy sank slowly into the river. Leaving the bank, Clement and Morris walked silently up a gently sloping hill towards the church. It stood out against the night sky, its spire towering above them. As they passed it, Clement read the name; St Peter’s Horningsea. Made of flint with an old wooden door and porch at one side it was a large church for a rural village. The path meandered around the church and into a small adjoining graveyard with numerous large trees. In front and over a high stone fence was a two-storey dwelling that Clement guessed was the rectory. To the right of this was another, smaller building. Parked not far away Clement saw the police car.
In silence they walked past the headstones to the vehicle. Morris opened the boot, retrieving a blanket and a cardboard box with a red cross on the side. ‘Wrap this around you, Clement, and sit on the back seat,’ Morris whispered. ‘I’ll put a compress on your eye for now but it will need stitches.’
‘What’s that building?’ Clement replied, nodding towards the nearest dwelling.
‘Crown and Punchbowl Inn,’ Morris said. ‘Best we leave here soon so as not to arouse the publican or anyone else.’
Clement pulled the blanket round him. He stared at the riverside scene in the intermittent moonlight, his gaze fixed on the path from the river, waiting for Reg to return. Within minutes he saw his old friend running back up the hill, his pack over his broad shoulders. By God’s hand and men like Morris and Reg, Clement believed he had been saved from certain death. With his safe deliverance, he finally allowed the weariness to seep into his bones. He felt utterly exhausted.
Morris closed the car door. A minute later Reg tossed his pack into the boot then sat in the front beside Morris. ‘No one will be using that boat again.’
‘I’ll drive you back to Oxford, Clement. Try and get some sleep.’
‘Not there either, thank you, Arthur.’ Clement explained why as Morris started the engine and drove slowly along the gravel path to the main road south.
‘Bloody hell! But that would mean whoever these people are, they’ve been watching you since Caithness,’ Reg said.
‘So it would appear,’ Clement said. ‘Did the boat return to Trinity Hall steps, Reg?’
‘Yes. Only the oarsman was on board. What I don’t understand, Clement, is if these people wanted you dead and knew where you lived, why haven’t they tried anything sooner?’
‘Good question…’ Clement paused. ‘In view of what Hector Armstrong said, it’s possible my activities have been used as a warning system for any SIS interest. One thing I do know; they didn’t want my body found.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Armstrong said as much.’ He told them his theory about Shetland.
‘One big explosion would send them all to kingdom come! We could still do it. While they’re all together,’ Reg said, twisting in his seat to look at Clement.
‘Thank you, Reg,’ Clement answered. ‘As enticing as that sounds, we cannot do it for the simple reason that they aren’t all together. They’re waiting for someone or some people to arrive. We have to get them all. If we don’t, they will abort and so would any chance we have of capturing them.’ Clement leaned his head back. In his mind he saw the image of Hugh Armstrong shouting across the fields, the threatening words a salient reminder to Clement that his current safety was temporary. ‘It’s possible this organisation is bigger than any of us imagined. It’s hierarchical, like a private army. Men at the top, educated men of influence, like Hector Armstrong, and lower ranks, like the Scot. We just have to make sure nothing happens to any more of them. For now.’
‘So who’ll replace Hector Armstrong? His son?’
‘I think that unlikely, Reg,’ Clement said, but he believed he already knew. The man was already in the country, albeit at Latchmere House. Now, it was just a matter of time.
Silence settled in the car again as Morris drove south through the village of Fen Ditton, heading towards Cambridge.
Reg reached into his coat pocket. ‘Have you got any weapons on you, Clement?’
‘Both taken. And I used the notebook.’
Reg flipped his coat collar and removed a miniature Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife from within the folds of the lapel and handed it to Clement.
‘Thank you, Reg. Another notebook would be helpful, if you have one?’
Reg grinned. Rummaging in his pack, he passed one to Clement. As much as his head and neck ached, Clement smiled.
‘You may like to have this too,’ Reg said, passing Clement a large-barrelled Welrod.
In the rear-view mirror Clement saw Morris flick a glance back to him but Morris made no comment. ‘It may interest you to know, Clement,’ Morris began, ‘that the money you found secreted in the fireplace in the porter’s lodge at Trinity Hall was a considerable amount. Over five hundred pounds, in fact. And, as you said, all in five-pound notes. Both Mr McBryde and Mr Edwards deny any knowledge of the cash box and by their reactions I’m inclined to believe them. So, I must ask myself; why would Mr Hayward have such an amount and why would he keep it secreted in the porter’s lodge and not in a bank or in his rooms?’
‘Clement and I talked about that,’ Reg said, and told Morris about the telephone call and the initials W.C.
Morris raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. ‘Do you suspect anyone in particular?’
‘No. And despite the initials, it’s hardly likely to be our Prime Minister.’
‘So, hush money, then. Given the amount, Hayward obviously kept the secret, so why kill him?’ Morris added.
Clement sat up. ‘Unless it was a single payment,’ Clement paused. ‘Perhaps they always intended to kill Hayward then retrieve the money, so the amount was immaterial. We’ll soon know. Whatever they’re planning Hayward wasn’t part of it. But he knew something and he died because of it. Do you know the farms around Waterbeach, Arthur?’
Morris nodded. ‘Armstrong has a place in the neighbourhood, Hitcham Hall. Most likely it’s where they took you.’
‘And the money. Where is it now?’
‘We put it back. Like to see who comes l
ooking for it. McBryde said he’d check it daily.’
‘Can he be trusted?’ Reg asked.
‘He’s a former prison guard,’ Morris said. ‘So I’m sure he can be relied upon to inform us.’ Morris turned the car onto the main road south.
Clement rested his head against the smooth leather of the seat back and stared through the car window at nothing in particular. ‘Although I haven’t seen young Michael, I think it likely he’s at Hitcham Hall. Did you learn anything about the boy’s family, Arthur?’
‘Yes. And no. He does have an uncle, his mother’s brother. John Laughton was a member of the Right Club and is currently a Fellow at Cambridge.’
‘Which college?’ Clement asked.
‘Caius.’
A shiver coursed through Clement’s body.
‘I asked to see Michael when I went to the house, if you recall. The butler told me that the uncle took him away the day after he’d been sent home from school.’
‘Is the uncle involved?’ Reg asked.
Clement thought back to the night he and Reg had seen the boy in the dinghy. ‘Quite possibly. If he is, it could have been him in the dinghy with the lad.’ Clement frowned, remembering that night. Would an uncle slap his nephew the way that man had hit Michael? But if not Michael’s uncle then who had been the man with him in the dinghy? Clement realised it had probably been the grey-haired man he’d seen talking to Bainbridge at Hitcham Hall. He began to wonder if the uncle had also been kidnapped and was the unknown passenger with him in the lorry? For now, there were no answers.
‘You’re positive it was Michael Hasluck you saw?’ Morris asked.
Clement paused, his gaze distant. ‘Yes. Although, I couldn’t swear to it. It was dark.’
Morris drove into the rear of the police station. It was just before one o’clock in the morning. The weather had turned much cooler and it was raining again. Clement shivered in his damp clothes. They went upstairs to Morris’s office. ‘Would you mind if I use a telephone, Arthur? I need to make an out-of-area call.’
