by V M Knox
It was just on dawn when the train pulled into Euston Station. Wednesday. So much had happened he had to remind himself of the day of the week. Clement strode across the forecourt grateful he was within walking distance of King’s Cross Station. He’d been away two full days. People thronged the platforms, a constant swirl of activity. Clement checked the departure board and found the platform number for the train to Cambridge. It said the train would leave within the hour but timetables were often inaccurate and delays could be long. While he was tired, he had slept a little on the train. He no longer felt the soreness in his eye. The swelling had reduced slightly and the eye patch had been useful. It had an effect on people. Whenever he wore his clerical collar, he felt conspicuous and people would chat to him in public places, but the patch turned people away and right now, he was grateful for it.
Clement stood in the corridor of the train for what he hoped would be a short journey to Cambridge. While he now believed he knew the identities of two of the three previously unknown men, he didn’t understand why John Nicolson had been killed. Neither could he see the motive for Bill Hayward’s death. Clement rubbed his hand along his bearded face. ‘Of course,’ Clement said half under his breath. Hayward must have known about the boy. He may even have brought meals for the lad and attended to his laundry. And the money had bought Old Bill’s silence. Clement began to believe Hayward had been killed because he was no longer needed. But it didn’t explain why they had the boy? Every time Clement visualised young Michael, he felt sick. Clement thought back, trying to form a chronology of events. They had moved Michael last Saturday, three days after Bill Hayward’s death. Clement frowned, trying to recollect when the break-in at the Abbey School had been. It had happened during the night on Thursday the twenty-ninth. He had asked Nora to telephone Morris to have the boy sent home on the Friday. Michael’s uncle had taken him to Caius on the Saturday, and a week later, Clement had seen Michael in the dinghy at five on the Saturday morning with, he speculated, the grey-haired man. Why was the boy so important? Clement checked his watch. Two hours at least before he would be in Cambridge.
Crossing the forecourt at Cambridge Railway Station, Clement walked outside to queue for the bus. Twenty minutes later he walked into the St Andrew’s Street Police Station. Sergeant Kendall nodded in the direction of the stairs and Clement went straight up. He knocked at Morris’s door then went in. Reg was sitting in the chair in front of Morris’s desk.
‘What did you learn, Clement?’ Reg asked, standing to greet him.
‘Plenty. You?’
‘I’ve set up a couple of trigger cameras around Hitcham Hall.’
‘I’m not sure I know what that means, Reg?’
‘A battery operated camera on a pressure switch. If the switch is depressed, it will trigger the shutter. Much like a pressure detonator but instead of an explosion, it takes a picture. I change the film every night. That way, we see who’s involved. First roll of film was interesting. I have a lovely picture of Hugh Armstrong arriving by boat at The Bridge pub at Waterbeach. He took a suitcase from the river. No prizes for guessing what that contained.’
‘Arthur, did you recover the suitcase in the pond at Ramsey?’
‘Yes. It contained a wireless,’ Morris said, indicating for Clement to sit down.
‘So why take the parachute all the way to Waterbeach to dispose of it?’ Clement asked.
‘Can’t answer that for certain, Clement. Perhaps it was just that it’s a long way from Ramsey. Given the Cam’s current, it wouldn’t be long before the suitcase was washed out to sea and never seen again. At least we’ve found all four suitcases and we know what each held.’
‘Has the Lagonda been moved?’ Clement asked.
Morris shook his head.
‘Do you have the men to keep it under surveillance?’
‘Sergeant Kendall has volunteered to do whatever is necessary.’
‘It would have to be watched day and night.’
‘Especially night,’ Reg added. ‘Car’s too noticeable to move in daylight.’
‘And the boy, Reg?’ Clement asked.
‘Not a sign of him. That’s not to say he isn’t there. I just haven’t seen him nor has he been in any of the photographs.’
Clement sighed. The boy’s welfare worried him. ‘Anyone else in these photos of yours, Reg?’
‘Just Armstrong and his henchman, the one you call the Scot.’
‘Do we know who he is?’
Morris shook his head. ‘Now we have a photo I’ll make some enquiries and let you know.’
‘And the grey-haired man?’
‘He’s there, Clement,’ Reg said. ‘Comes out for a smoke every so often then goes back indoors. But he’s there. Are you any further advanced?’
Clement told them about Albrecht Haushofer. ‘And I think I can confirm the identity of the man in your mortuary, Arthur. His name is John Nicolson. He’s from Shetland. He has a sister who worked in Glasgow until about a year ago. Her name is Ailsa Hazelton and apparently she moved to Cambridge.’ Clement looked at Morris. ‘Could you check to see if you have anything on her?’
Morris reached for the telephone and asked Kendall to look into it. ‘Are you suspicious about this woman, Clement?’
Clement told them about the conversations he’d had with the gravedigger at Sighthill, with Nicolson’s former employer at the stonemason’s yard and the conversation with the woman at the rear of Twenty-Five Devonshire Gardens.
‘What’s the glue, Clement? What binds them all together?’ Reg asked.
‘Freemasonry.’
Reg snorted. ‘Boys pretending to be men. More cloak and dagger than the real thing.’
‘Are you sure, Clement? Morris asked. ‘Sounds more like the Nordic League to me. Or the White Knights of Britain.’
‘Who?’ Reg asked.
‘Far-right groups, Reg, but I thought they’d disbanded before the war,’ Clement said. ‘I do recall they used various organisations as fronts for their network. It could be that the Freemasons are unwittingly harbouring a secret resurgence within their ranks.’
‘So what’s it all about?’ Reg asked.
‘I hope I’m wrong but…’ Clement paused, reluctant to voice his concerns, ‘I think they are going to attempt a coup.’
‘What! When?’ Reg asked.
‘Soon.’
‘You informed Winthorpe?’ Reg asked.
Clement nodded, stifling a yawn.
‘You look done in, Clement. Have you eaten and slept?’ Morris asked.
‘I’m alright, Arthur. Would you mind though if I were to stay here in the police station for a few hours?’
‘I think it’s the safest place for you at present, Clement. I’ll get Sergeant Kendall to open a cell for you, should you wish to rest, and I’ll brief him about keeping the Lagonda under surveillance. And we’ll see what we can find out about this woman Ailsa Hazelton. The meeting room is at your disposal, if you need it.’ Morris reached for the telephone.
Clement stood and walked towards the door to the meeting room, Reg behind him. Morris was on the telephone giving instructions to Kendall.
‘How are you, Clement?’ Reg asked, closing the door behind him.
‘Getting too old for this, Reg, if you want the truth.’
‘Doesn’t seem to stop you though.’
Clement smiled but his face and neck were sore and he felt old. Was it pain or the guilt he felt about young Michael? He thought about Bill Hayward looking after the boy and the telephone call with the initials W.C. Did that call concern the boy or was it something unrelated?
‘Penny for them, Clement?’ Reg asked.
‘Thinking about Michael. Why do they have him, Reg? What possible reason could they have for taking an innocent child?’
‘Kidnap’s usually about a ransom,’ Reg added.
Clement frowned. With educated and highly successful businessmen like Armstrong, and the enormous amounts of money the Abwehr had intended to p
our into the coup, Clement didn’t believe this organisation to be short of funds. He looked up at Reg. ‘Do we know what Michael’s father does?’
Reg shook his head.
‘When do you change the film in those cameras of yours?’
‘Midnight. I leave Cambridge from Jesus Lock around eleven and row to Baits Bite Lock. I can lift the boat out of the water there and carry it to the other side of the lock then row the next stretch on to Horningsea. That’s where I tie it up then do the rounds via Hitcham Hall and Waterbeach, then back to Horningsea. I’m back in Cambridge around three in the morning.’
‘Do you ever see anyone? Here or at Trinity Hall steps?’
‘No. And I don’t use Trinity Hall steps. I ‘borrow’ a boat further downstream then return it. Never the same boat twice though. What is it, Clement?’
‘Stick to your routine. Then I’ll meet you on the jetty at The Bridge at midnight tonight. I’d like a closer look at Hitcham Hall. I want to see if the boy is inside.’
‘You have a death wish now?’
‘It’s not only the boy. I think someone else is there.’
Chapter 22
Wednesday 11th June 1941
It was well after ten o’clock when Clement and Morris drove out of Cambridge, heading north. The long twilight had gone and a strong moonlit night was drawing in. About half a mile from Waterbeach, Morris slowed the police vehicle, pulled off the road and switched off the engine.
‘After I’ve gone, Arthur, drive back to Hitcham Hall and hide the car, then take up a position where you can see the entrance gate. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. And Arthur, if you see anyone, don’t engage with them on your own. They are extremely dangerous.’
Morris nodded.
Clement stepped out of the car and closed the door. He ran the half mile to Waterbeach. The Bridge’s distinctive silhouette stood out against the night sky as he approached it from the Clayhithe side. He crossed the bridge. He hadn’t passed anyone. Neither had he seen any cars. Creeping through the rear garden of The Bridge, he crouched behind a low shrub, the jetty in his sight. He checked his watch. It would soon be midnight. The moon was near full and the bright nocturnal light cast long shadows over the jetty and grass. Clement waited, his gaze fixed on the immediate area, particularly the jetty and public house. Nothing stirred but he needed to know if anyone was in the vicinity. Hurrying across the grass, Clement checked the front of The Bridge then crossed the road and ran down the bank into the narrow, wooded area. Running along the path, he stopped at a gate that separated the copse from a ploughed field. In the distance, the high roofs of Hitcham Hall poked above the surrounding trees. Pulling the binoculars from his coat he checked the fields between himself and the Hall, but he saw no one. Returning to the road he ran back across the grass at the rear of The Bridge and lay under one of the overhanging shrubs to wait for Reg to arrive, his binoculars in his hand. Five minutes passed before he heard the sound of oars in the water. A minute later he heard the sound of a boat hitting the pylons. Clement put his binoculars into his coat pocket and reached for his knife. A man dressed in black with a pack over his shoulder stood on the jetty.
‘Reg!’ Clement whispered, stepping from behind a willow.
Reg spun around. Without speaking he joined Clement under the low growth. ‘Anything happening?’
‘Morris has the Hall under surveillance from the front. I said we’d join him outside the gate.’
‘I’ve got a camera there too. I’ll get this one and set up the next. Back in five.’
Reg scurried across the grass, darting between the trees’ elongated shadows. Within minutes he was back. He tapped his pocket to indicate it held a roll of film. ‘We using the boat again?’
‘Too slow. I don’t want to leave Morris alone for too long. He doesn’t have a weapon and wouldn’t stand a chance if he got into difficulties. Can you leave the boat here?’
‘An hour or two won’t hurt. But I should get it back before daylight.’
‘Right.’
Together they crossed the road and ran back through the copse then, jumping the gate, headed south-west towards Hitcham Hall and Morris.
‘What did Whitehall say?’ Reg asked.
‘A few things I told them came as a surprise. And they didn’t know just how sophisticated and involved this network is. You know, Reg, recruits have been enlisted and intelligence gathered for years. Most likely from before the war. And it’s widespread. Scotland, Cambridgeshire, Oxford…’ Clement paused.
‘Universities?’
‘And quite possibly schools.’
‘Student networks? It hardly seems possible.’
‘Hitler Youth!’
‘Hitler Youth attend our schools?’ Reg said.
‘Exchange programmes, Reg. There were plenty of foreign students here before the war. And not just any school. Good schools. I’ve seen the former headmaster’s papers at St Edward’s and those exchange programmes included young German students, right up to just before the outbreak of war.’
‘You are talking boys of what, ten, twelve?’
‘And older. Perhaps girls too. Who better, Reg? They would have lived and studied in the area for six months or more. Befriended locals. We are not talking about inquiring, logical minds, Reg. These young people have been indoctrinated since birth. What better way to learn about your enemy than from very close quarters. They’d do anything for the Führer.’ Clement visualised Hugh Armstrong with his disingenuous smile.
‘So what are you saying, Clement?’
Clement stopped running. ‘Dear Lord. Hugh Armstrong!’
Reg stopped. ‘What is it, Clement?’
‘Good schools.’
Reg stood facing him.
‘Hugh Armstrong, Reg. He could also have been in the Hitler Youth or at least had German students billeted with them. And he was a Wykehamist.’
‘A what?’
‘A student at Winchester College. W.C., Reg.’
Chapter 23
Thursday 12th June 1941
The moonlight was strong, a colourless pastiche of illusion and reality that lit up the fields and where the flickering shadows of swaying trees provided places of concealment. Clement stared at the ground beneath his feet. His mind churned about this network of traitors and spies that crossed county and foreign borders. Everyone from aristocracy to labourers, and even schoolchildren. It had taken years of preparation down to the last detail. No wonder the man on the porch at Hitcham Hall had said it would go ahead with or without Armstrong and Haushofer. It really was unstoppable. Through the trees, Clement could see the tall rooftops of Hitcham Hall. Five minutes later, the large stone pillars at the gate came into view.
‘The camera’s behind the gate post,’ Reg said.
Clement waited, his gaze fixed on the trees and shrubs beside the road and the long driveway into the property. His ears strained for any sound. Two minutes later, Clement heard running feet. He drew his knife, hunching beside one of the tall, stone gateposts. From across the road, Morris was running towards him.
‘Any comings or goings?’ Clement asked Morris.
‘None. You?’
‘No one. Reg is with me.’
Reg reappeared beside them, another film in his pocket.
‘What now?’ Reg asked.
‘Arthur, would you be willing to drive in and knock at the door?’ Clement said.
Morris paused. ‘In for a penny, I suppose, Clement. What’s your plan?’
‘Say you wish to speak with Hugh Armstrong. Say it’s urgent. If you can get inside, that would be ideal. I want to know who’s there. But don’t take any risks. Police questions only.’
Morris nodded then returned to his car. The engine started. Pulling onto the road, Morris drove slowly past Clement and Reg and into the property. A minute later Clement and Reg ran through the gate, and keeping to the shrubs at the side of the driveway, approached the house. Off to the left, Clement could see the high-roofed barn w
here he’d been held and where Hector Armstrong had died. What remained of the large double doors were blackened from the flames.
Clement crouched beside a large oak, Reg beside him. He could see Morris’s car. Taking his binoculars from his pocket, Clement watched as Morris switched off the engine and got out. Slowly, Morris walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. Clement kept his binoculars focused on the porch. Several minutes passed. No one came. Morris rang the bell a second time. Still no one came.
‘Stay here, Reg, and watch,’ Clement said, handing him the binoculars. Clement ran the short distance to where he’d secreted himself before beside the front porch and where Morris still waited. Morris rang the doorbell a third time. With his back to the house, Clement scanned the area in front. No cars. No lorries either. And no guards patrolling the fields. Given what had happened at Hitcham Hall, Clement would have thought, at the very least, a guard would have been posted at the front door or at the main gate. Despite the hour, the eerie stillness of the place was unnerving. Clement couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was inside. He pulled his Welrod from the holster under his coat, his senses on high alert, and moved closer to where Morris was standing.
Morris backed away from the front door and stood facing out under the porch. ‘You’re taking a risk, Clement,’ Morris whispered, not moving from his position.
‘Go back and get into the car, Arthur, as though you’re driving away. Then park it just beyond the trees at the curve in the drive,’ he said. ‘Stay in the car but keep the front door to the house in view.’
‘Right. Where will you be?’
‘In the house.’
‘And Reg?’
‘He’ll be with me directly.’
Clement stayed by the porch as Morris drove away. As soon as Morris had gone, Clement moved to the corner of the house. He reached for the Welrod, his ears straining for any sounds from within.
