Where Death and Danger Go

by V M Knox

Clement produced the card and paid his two shillings. The woman placed a key with a large wooden tag attached to it on the desk. ‘No lights without the blackout curtains drawn. No women in the room. And a shilling for the gas meter.’

  Clement handed over the extra shilling and took the key. At one time he would have been horrified by the woman’s suggestion of impropriety. He couldn’t blame her. Despite not wearing his clerical collar, he knew he looked dishevelled; more like a vagrant than a man of God.

  Upstairs he found room nine. It was small and grimy with a window that had been nailed closed and taped against blast damage but it had what he needed, a view of the street. He stood just back from the sill and stared out. The light rain had increased and it was wetting the streets and pavements. A few cars passed. A bus had evidently collected the queue of people. Others with umbrellas were hurrying to or from the station. Several bicycles pedalled past, their riders hunched against the rain. His gaze lingered over the entrance to the railway station opposite. No one seemed to be loitering about watching the boarding house. He checked the street in both directions, then scrutinised every doorway or niche he could see. While people perpetually came and went from the railway station entrance, no one stood watching the boarding house.

  Clement drew the blackout curtains then lit the gas lamp and checked the room. There were no homely touches at The Caledonian Palace and Boarding House. Clement wondered if there ever had been. The room contained a single metal bed with a pillow, sheet and an old army blanket folded on a worn ticking mattress. On the opposite wall was a small washstand with jug and bowl. A coat stand and chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. On one wall, paint was peeling from the top corner and not a single picture graced any of the walls. The radiator was on the wall beneath the window. He turned it on then checked the lock on the door. It wasn’t strong. Tearing a thread from his coat, he placed it on top of the doorjamb, then drawing the chair up to the window, took a sandwich and a small cake he’d bought from a station cafe at some unknown railway station during one of the many stops en route, and placed the food on the window sill. He ate the meagre meal and then undressed, folding his clothes over the back of the chair and placing it beside the radiator. Adrenaline had kept him going throughout the day but now exhaustion was taking hold and his eye ached. Making up the bed, he put the Welrod and knife under the pillow. Pushing the explosive notebook into his left sock, he climbed into bed.

  He woke with a start. Reaching for his watch, he threw back the blanket and rose to draw the curtains. The room was cold, the shilling in the meter having run out sometime during the night. Wrapping his overcoat around himself, he stood by the window and gazed out. It surprised him that it was already eight o’clock. Outside, rain still fell and a strong wind was turning umbrellas inside out. Despite his spartan surroundings, he’d slept well. Even his eye and shoulder felt a little better. Turning, he reached for his clothes, hurriedly pulling on his vest before fastening the holster on over his shirt. Securing his knife to his shin and the Welrod in its holster, he dressed quickly then adjusted the eye patch into place. Five minutes later he retrieved the thread from the door and left the room.

  The boarding house reception was unattended when he descended the stairs. He placed the key on the desk, then retrieved his ration book from behind the counter. He could hear the woman’s gravel-edged voice in an adjacent room, doubtless serving the meal. For a second he wondered what she’d be preparing for them. Porridge. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of it. He’d never liked it. He hadn’t intended to have breakfast at the hotel, but he’d complied with the woman’s request about the ration book so as not to raise suspicion. Placing the book into his coat, he left.

  Outside, the wind tore at his coat. Standing a moment at the front door to the hotel, he pulled up his coat collar while checking the railway station entrance opposite. Despite being a weekday, few people walked the streets and those that did hunched against the wind, their umbrellas struggling to keep their shape. He checked the doorways and newsstands. No one seemed interested in him. Pulling his overcoat tight around him, he crossed the road and entered the station again. To his right was the cloakroom. Leaving the suitcase with the attendant there, he pocketed the ticket and returned to the street, turning right and walking north. At the first corner he asked a stranger for directions to Sighthill Cemetery.

  Thirty-five minutes later he stepped from the bus. On his left was St Kevin’s Catholic Church, in front of him and across the road were the gates to the cemetery. It seemed a bleak place; the wet windy day keeping all but mourners indoors. He crossed the road and entered the cemetery. A little distance away was a monument to the fallen of the last war. He walked towards it, its red colour an instant reminder of why he was here. To his right, he saw a small gathering of people dressed in black. They were walking away from a recently dug grave. Some walked alone, others huddled around the bereaved. Beside the grave, a man in workman’s clothes stood, a shovel in his hand. Clement watched him for a while. The man waited for the mourners to leave before pushing the shovel into a pile of soil.

  Clement crossed the path and approached him. ‘Morning.’

  The gravedigger looked up.

  Clement saw the fleeting reaction to his two-day-old beard, the eye patch and his dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Morning,’ came a wary reply but the man didn’t stop his work. Clement wasn’t sure if it was his appearance or his English accent that had caused the man’s cautious response.

  ‘Do you know where I might find the stonemasons who make the monuments and headstones?’

  The man stopped shovelling and stared at him before speaking. ‘Buchanan’s do most of the work here. They’re on the canal in Port Dundas.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Not far.’ The man turned and pointed back towards the cemetery entrance. ‘Take Fountainwell Road there, then right onto Pinkston Road. Once you cross over the railway, you’ll see the yard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Clement said. He paused. ‘Have you worked here long?’ he asked, hoping the question would yield something.

  ‘All my working life.’

  ‘Do you remember a murder that took place here, in the cemetery some years ago?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aye, but then there have been more than one death here over the years. Derelicts mostly,’ he said, his eyes again roaming over Clement’s clothes.

  ‘They said this man was killed by his wife,’ Clement said, hoping it would trigger the man’s memory.

  ‘Aye, I remember.’

  ‘Do you recall his name?’ Clement asked. Clement already knew the name, but he needed to be sure they were talking about the same murder.

  ‘Bill Nicolson. That’s N-I-C-O-L-S-O-N. No ‘H’.’

  Clement frowned. ‘That’s an unusual spelling. No wonder I’m having trouble locating his family.’

  The gravedigger ran his tongue around his lips before speaking. ‘What’s your interest in him?’

  ‘I’m trying to find if Mr John William Nicholson had any family. There’s an inheritance which I’m sure his family would appreciate having.’ Clement bit his tongue. He didn’t like lying.

  ‘He had a wife. But then you know that. She vanished the same night he died. I’m guessing you know that too.’

  ‘Any other family?’

  The man put the shovel down on the dirt and shot a quick glance around him. Clement did likewise but the mourners had gone and there were no others in the cemetery.

  ‘He had a brother,’ the man said. ‘And a sister too, as I recall.’

  ‘His brother, did he also work here?’

  ‘Not here. He worked for a time at Buchanan’s. They’ll most likely know where he is now.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘John something. But then they both were. They do that double name thing. It’s a tradition apparently. Probably after their father.’

  ‘And the sister?’

  ‘You
ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Well, it’s a considerable sum, so I’m keen to find his relatives.’

  The man sniffed loudly but didn’t respond.

  ‘Well, thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ Clement replied. He wrapped his coat around himself and walked away. He hoped he hadn’t asked too many questions making the man suspicious. But a description of a man wearing an eye patch wouldn’t necessarily lead to him. The eye patch had been useful and he decided to keep it even after he no longer needed it. He hurried on, staring at his feet as he walked. Buchanan’s. He swallowed, the cold wind making even his good eye water.

  Following the man’s directions, Clement headed for Port Dundas and the hoped for Buchanan’s. Twenty minutes later he saw the slabs of marble, granite and red sandstone leaning against a high side fence. He walked into the yard and approached a man sitting outside a small wooden hut. He was warming his hands on a struggling fire in an old cut-down forty-four-gallon drum.

  ‘Good morning. I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for a John Nicolson who worked here?’

  ‘Aren’t we all!’ the man said, his Glaswegian accent thick. ‘Left here a month ago saying his old father was sick and we haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Do you mean John William or his brother?’

  The man eyed him, the strong brow creased and fixed. ‘Bill Nicolson’s dead. Murdered by his wife, or so it’s said. I’m talking about his brother John.’

  ‘I understand both John William and his brother were named John. Do you know if Bill’s brother had a second name?’

  ‘Never asked.’

  ‘Where does the father live?’

  ‘Levenwick. Shetland.’

  Clement felt the shiver course through him. ‘Can you tell me where he lived here in Glasgow?’

  ‘You with the police?’

  ‘I am. I’m Superintendent Morris, Cambridgeshire Police. I think your Mr John Nicolson is the man I have lying on a slab in my mortuary.’ Clement bit his tongue hoping the man wouldn’t ask to see a warrant card.

  ‘Is that so? Aye, well that would explain it. Although, I can’t imagine what he would be doing there. You should speak to his sister.’

  ‘Would you know her name and address?’

  ‘I’ll have something in the files. Accidents happen in this line of work so we usually ask for a next-of-kin. She was in domestic service as I recall. Ailsa something.’ Standing, the man walked into the small kiosk. Clement waited by the door. He could see the man scribbling something on a slip of paper from a file.

  ‘Here you are. For his sake I hope you’re wrong about him being dead. Good worker. Strong.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘A bit. He was different to his brother. Bill, well, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, especially as he was murdered, but he was a bully. When he’d had a skinful, he’d hit almost anyone or anything.’

  ‘And his brother wasn’t a violent man?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. He was a thinker, stored things up, you know, mulled things over in his head. Much good it did him.’

  ‘Strange that all of them were in Glasgow?’

  ‘Aye, well siblings, so I suppose it’s natural. Although John was the odd man out among them. Bill and Ailsa were ardent for the workers’ rights. Surprised me when he joined such a group.’

  ‘Bill or John was it who joined this group?’

  ‘John. Went to the meetings every Thursday night. Regular as clockwork. They were all in it, except the woman, of course. She couldn’t go.’

  ‘She didn’t attend?’

  The man stared at him. ‘You ever heard of a woman at Lodge? That’ll be the day!’

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday 10th June 1941

  Clement walked away. He could feel the man’s eyes on him as he left. He looked at the note: Ailsa Hazelton, Twenty-Five Devonshire Gardens. At the cemetery gates he asked some passers-by about directions. Nearly two hours later he stood on the Great Western Road. Twenty-Five Devonshire Gardens was one of an elegant line of Georgian terraced houses for the well-heeled of Glasgow. Clement looked along the line of grand homes. He wondered if he should knock at the tradesman’s entrance. In any household, it was always either the housekeeper or the butler who knew what was going on above and below stairs. He knocked at the front door. Within minutes an ancient-looking butler opened the door, a scowl on his face.

  Clement reached for his SIS warrant card. ‘Does an Ailsa Hazelton work here?’

  The butler frowned, then scrutinised Clement’s face. ‘No, she does not. She left of her own accord about a year ago.’

  ‘Would you have a forwarding address for her?’

  ‘It isn’t my habit to keep the forwarding addresses of low-ranking domestic servants.’

  ‘Did she leave with a reference?’

  ‘She did not. In fact, she left in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. And we’ve not seen or heard from her since.’

  ‘Would another member of your staff still be in contact with her?’

  ‘I think that unlikely.’

  ‘Could you ask. It is important.’

  ‘I’ll ask. Wait here.’ The door closed, denying Clement entry.

  Clement pulled the collar of his overcoat up around his head while he waited for the butler to return.

  The door opened and the man reappeared. ‘No one knows where she is now.’

  Clement wondered if, in fact the butler had even bothered to ask. He decided to walk around to the rear of the house. Waiting by a fence in the rear lane, Clement watched the back door of Twenty-Five Devonshire Gardens. It wasn’t long before a woman of mature years came out with a bucket of kitchen scraps.

  Clement walked over to the fence and called to her. ‘Is Ailsa in?’

  The woman looked up. ‘Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in a while.’

  ‘I haven’t been in Glasgow for a while myself,’ Clement said.

  ‘Then you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘She hasn’t worked here for, let me see, at least a year.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘Down south, I think. Told me she was hopeful of a plum job working for some toff in Cambridge, I think it was. Not sure I believed her. But she did get a letter. She was very happy about that. She went that night. Just ups and leaves. And not a word to anyone.’

  Clement smiled. ‘I hope it’s all she hoped for then. Her brother must miss her.’

  ‘You knew her brother?’

  ‘Yes. That is John not Bill.’

  ‘Oh Bill! Had a temper on him and no mistake. Didn’t surprise me when his wife took a knife to him. John, though, he was different. He used to visit his dad regularly.’

  ‘Shetland, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Clement saw the figure in an upper floor window. The butler stood watching him.

  ‘I’d better let you get on. Thank you for your time.’

  Clement hurried away, hoping the woman wouldn’t be in too much trouble for speaking to him. Taking the return bus into the city, he went straight to the railway station. The Caledonian Palace Hotel and Boarding House looked unchanged as he entered the terminus. He glanced up to his room on the upper level. Even the curtains were in the same position as he had left them. He wondered if the woman had even discovered he’d gone.

  He walked towards the cloakroom and retrieved his suitcase then joined a queue to purchase his train ticket. Staying on the forecourt, he found the station cafe and bought some food for the journey. Mingling with the crowds, he sat with small groups, changing seats regularly, never sitting alone. As soon as the London train platform was announced, he went directly to the ticket barrier and walked onto the platform amid the other passengers.

  Weaving his way through the crowds on the platform, he checked the people around him. People stood, huddled in small groups, embracing their loved
ones. He moved around them, always checking behind him for anyone following. Others, mostly men in uniform, found their compartments and climbed aboard. Locating the nearest third class carriage, he found a seat. He checked his watch. He’d decided not to stay another night in Glasgow but take the late train and sleep through the night. All being well, he would be in London first thing in the morning. The compartment began to fill. Three Naval ratings with blank expressions and two soldiers joined him, their large packs taking over the racks above their heads. Other than the most fleeting of glances, none showed the slightest interest in him. Clement looked through the window as the train pulled away from the platform.

  The train crawled through the suburbs of Glasgow. From his window he could see the bomb damage from the two devastating raids of mid-March. Street urchins were scrounging through the endless rubble for whatever they could find. Leaning his head on the window, he closed his eyes.

  The trip to Glasgow had yielded answers. He felt sure he now knew the identity of the dead man in Morris’s mortuary. Clement wondered about John Nicolson. From other people’s observations, John Nicolson was a decent man, unlike his brother Bill. Was John unconnected to the people in Caithness? Clement recalled the woman’s comments about the man; John returned to Shetland regularly to see his father. Was that true or was it an excuse? Either way, the man was now dead. And the reference to Freemasonry had told Clement how they all communicated with each other. Clement knew nothing about Freemasonry and he didn’t choose to but he did know of its entrenched secrecy and covert ways of identifying each other. It was an established organisation, with a hierarchy of power that wielded considerable influence among its members in every level of society.

  Clement thought of Nicolson’s sister who had left Glasgow for Cambridge, Ailsa Hazelton. Clement frowned. A.H. Why did so many of these people have names with the A.H. initials: Ailsa Hazelton, Albrecht Haushofer, even the name Rudolf Hess had initially given to authorities when he’d first landed in Scotland was Alfred Horn. Was it just coincidence? Clement thought of Rathbourne’s two watchdogs: Gus Hutchinson and Bertie Hawkins whose full names would surely be Augustus Hutchinson and Albert Hawkins. Clement felt a sinister shiver course through his body. Even Hector Armstrong’s initials and his son’s were a variation of A.H. Was it purely coincidence?