Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles

  Volume 1

  Resurrection

  By Mike Bennett

  Copyright Mike Bennett 2008 – 2013

  All rights reserved by the author.

  Cover art by M.J. Hahn.

  I would like to thank the following friends and cohorts: Pauline McGrath, Jason Andrews, M.J. Hahn, Kerry Heron, Rachel Sinnamon, the podcast listeners of Planet U&F, and especially ...

  The Patrons of Underwood and Flinch

  This book was made possible by the generous contributions of the following wonderful people to the 2012 Underwood and Flinch fundraising campaign at Indiegogo.com.

  This book is dedicated to them with my deepest thanks.

  The Black Circle

  Pons and Melissa Matal, Joel Palmer, Daniel Price, Dale Bennett, Brandon Foster,

  Benjamin Tovar, Mitchel Bynum, Matthew Bushong, John R. Orr,

  Steve Bown, Michael Bowers, Florence Wall, Paco Marquez.

  The Sect Members

  Alan Lee, Robert Pinter, Jeffrey C. Claytor, Dan Shaurette, David Rogers

  Laura Faichney, Chess Griffin, David Goodwin, Seth Wolfson, Keith Hunt

  Rocheen Maclean, Martin Heron, Kate Matthews, Monday Matlock, Lord Revell,

  Ben Wright, Terry Bailey, Michael Graham, Elizabeth Mast, Dave A. Alcock,

  Chris, John Mcleish, Rick L . Abbott, Craig Large, Ieva Klava, Steve, Nick Robinson,

  Mark "Woof" Brown, Luke Race, Marcella Tapp, Jason Vion, Cathi Iuliano.

  The Fang-Tastic!

  Ann Smith, Jon Cape, Stephanie Price, Jeffrey Crane, Mark Bailey, John Noonan,

  Steve Hyland, Darren Ledgerwood, Tara and David Haroon, Linda Mendes, Kym Durham

  David Heyes, Scott Thompson, Martin Reindl, William Campsey

  Jake Kozak, Stephanie Crosskey, Thomas Reed, Maryanne Torgerson

  Mandy Lancaster, Jude Cuddy, Stefan Moody, Michael Micklethwaite, Justin Elsdon,

  Nanna Bjerre Larsen, Magnus Lonberg Carlsen, Maia Olsen, Richard Wodehouse,

  Nima Aleagha, Michael Metz, Suzanne Holt, Gonzalo Gonzalez, Tom Lytle

  Larry Horne, John & Mindy Milfelt, Kameron Dodson, Dawn Wancura,

  Elliot Gould, Nancy Stevenson.

  The Stake Holders

  Alison Benowitz, Heather Brady, Keith Burnage, David Fisk, Dave Wangrow, Dr Jon Durrant,

  Andrew Rothman, Mick Everett, Karl Jones, Mark Wiard, Brendon King, David Dean,

  Dave Mallon, John Lingard, Shane Alonso, Gavin Armit, Craig Bristol, Nelline Henning,

  Daryl Miller, Patrick Jones, Kerry Heron, Paul Bull, Adam and Jo Roxby,

  Dillard Hayes, Mr S.R.Hart, Eric Neff, Tracy Smith, Karen Lind, David Campbell,

  Paul Warren, Sandra Allan, Shaun Curry, Mark Dales, Roy Murphy,

  Stephen Ormsby, Stephanie Gagnon, Amanda B. Larssen,

  Tony Robinson, Denise Romero, Garry Ogle, Mika Eloranta, Angela Sorrey,

  Katharine Parke, Richard Hart, Natasha Webb, Nick Nilsen,

  Rebecca Stacey & Darren Jarvis, Tracey Storer,

  Adam Carter, Paul Hurst, M Domanko, Sophie Barwick, Jason Andrews,

  Uli Scheuss, Alexander Dietrich, Colin Lawton, Steve Loxdale,

  Alan Smith, Lisa Burke, Jeremy Opsahl, Yuhri Miller, Eric Husen, Tena Kolakowski

  Rich Girardi, Mike Dunham, Melissa Mosier, Joseph Carson, Ryan Caesar-Brown,

  Gerard Griesbaum III, Mike Sandidge, Wan Park, Andrew Hunter,

  Pamela Culpepper, Nancy Paris.

  The Jolly Rogers

  Teri Humphries, William Hill, Amy Olshever, Jeremy Avery, Robbie Keene, Brent Boyd

  The Blood Donors

  Steve Bickle, Daniel Perdue, Emma Hastings, Chris Pragman, Joshua Arnold Durham,

  William Berry, Dan Johnson, Karen Walters, Ryan Waldon, Andrew Richardson,

  KT Smith, Dean Baratta, Matthew Lunde, Mark L Berry, Mark Horrocks,

  Veronii Giguere, Shevaun O'Neill, Stephen Pountney, Leonardo, Schlongasaurus,

  Stephanie Newland, Andrea Dixon, Jerry DeMario, Jamie Bennett,

  Simon Rishton, Elizabeth Johnson, Steve, Christina Nelson, Alison Kilgour,

  Hilary Jones, Gerard McCann, Nathaniel Kajumba, Neil Hutchings,

  Erica Turner, C2012, John Pitchford, Paul Anderson, Si UrenSibongo,

  Joe Schweinzger, Rudy Toledo, Brad Bucholtz, J. Alexander Greenwood,

  Jennifer Marzetta, David Haupt, Kelly Stouffer, Jeff Turro.

  The Candle Bearers

  Ken Wieland, Damien Smith, Debbie Neff, Simon, Dennis C. Nolasco, Simon Cowlard,

  Nicole McGarrigle, Quinn Kurenda

  My profound thanks to you all. This book is for you.

  Mike Bennett, Sussex. July 2013.

  Prologue 1: Night Crossing

  ON A CHILL NIGHT in the spring of 1958, the cargo ship Glenmalloch sounded its foghorn as it had done every ten minutes for the last twelve hours and edged slowly onward through mist towards Spain. The ship had left the Algerian port of Oran the previous morning carrying a cargo of fresh fruit, dates and tobacco; it also carried seven passengers, the majority of whom were in their cabins getting ready for dinner. However, two passengers stood alone at the stern. The men were dressed in formal black suits. The taller man appeared to be in his late thirties, while the shorter, who also wore a black overcoat, looked about ten years older. There was an attitude of stoical regret about both men, as if misfortune had recently come to visit and was now reluctant to leave.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lord Underwood,’ said the shorter man as he extended his hands to take the body of the cat.

  Underwood handed him the corpse and sighed. ‘Never mind, Flinch. I know you did all you could. Let’s just forget about it, shall we?’

  ‘I know you’re not fond of – ’

  ‘Really Flinch, forget it,’ Underwood drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open. The second hand wasn’t moving and he tapped gently at the scratched face. The hand began to move. He smiled. ‘What time do you have, Flinch?’

  Flinch dropped the cat over the side of the ship and checked his wristwatch. ‘It’s just after eight-thirty, sir.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Underwood adjusted his watch, wound it and put it back in his pocket. ‘And what’s our current speed? Any idea?’

  ‘Five knots, sir.’

  ‘Five knots?’

  Underwood looked over the side and down at the sea. The ship’s slow-churning wake confirmed Flinch’s report.

  ‘It’s the fog, sir. A necessary precaution, I’m told.’

  Underwood ran a finger along the hand rail and looked up at the single red and black funnel as the fog horn again sounded its low, two-note warning. ‘I see. So what does that make our estimated time of arrival?’

  ‘We should reach Malaga in about two hours, sir.’

  ‘Oh damn. I’d hoped we’d be there by now.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is regrettable.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind, eh?’ Underwood began to reach for his cigarette case when he noticed the blood on his hands. ‘Oh, dear. Do you have a hanky or something, Flinch?’

  Flinch pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and passed it to his master without a word.

  ‘Thank you.’ Underwood wiped the blood from his hands and then inspected the soiled handkerchief. ‘Sorry, Flinch,’ he handed it back. ‘I’ll get you a replacement when we reach port.’

  ‘Very kind, sir,’ said Flinch, folding the handkerchief in such a way as to conceal the bloodstains before popping it back into his pocket.

  Underwood reached into the inside pocket of
his jacket and took out his silver cigarette case. ‘Fag?’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind if I do, sir.’ Flinch accepted one of the proffered cigarettes and took out his lighter. He extended the flame to Underwood, who leaned forward to meet it.

  For a moment, the flame illuminated a pale, handsome face, though one with an impression of being somewhat undernourished; the cheeks were sunken beneath high, sharp cheekbones. His hair was dark, parted from the left and fashionably slick with Brylcreem that shone in the light from Flinch’s flame.

  His cigarette lit, Underwood stepped back. Flinch lit his own cigarette and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. ‘Everything go all right with the car?’ Underwood asked. ‘I didn’t really notice earlier on.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, sir. It’s lashed securely to the cargo hatch. Not that there’s much chance of it rolling around the deck in this weather.’

  ‘No indeed. What about the other things? How’s the move going?’

  ‘All very well, sir. Most of it is, as you know, coming by sea in the next few months. Until then, we’ll have to make do with what’s already in the house.’

  ‘You mean you’ll have to make do, such things are hardly my concern.’

  ‘No, sir.’ There was a note of regret in Flinch’s voice and he looked down at his shoes. He noticed a spot of blood on his left toecap and he took out the already-stained handkerchief and bent to wipe it off. He gave the shoe a brief, cursory polish before rising again with an air of complete composure.

  ‘Don’t worry, Arthur,’ said Underwood, smiling. ‘It’s got everything you could possibly need. You’ve been in touch with señor Hernandez?’

  ‘Yes, sir. His handwriting is a little cryptic, or perhaps just his turn of phrase, but he reports everything is ready and awaiting your arrival. Other members of the Sect are making themselves very useful in the area. Besides Hernandez in Ronda, we have señor Lago, a notary in Almacena itself, and a retired couple who are going to be helping out around the house and estate.’

  ‘Good show.’ Underwood took a drag on his cigarette. Then his eyes narrowed as, over Flinch’s shoulder, he noticed a figure in the shadows further down deck. ‘I say, have you noticed anything queer about any of the other passengers?’

  Flinch frowned. ‘No sir.’

  ‘No one asking any questions?’

  ‘No. Might I ask why, sir?’

  Underwood watched as the figure, perhaps sensing he had been seen, receded into the mist. ‘Don’t look now, Arthur, but I think we’re being watched.’

  ‘Watched, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Chap about twenty yards behind you, wearing a bowler hat.’

  Flinch nodded slowly. ‘I think I know the fellow, sir. I caught his eye once or twice this afternoon.’

  ‘No contact though?’

  ‘No, sir. Not a sausage.’

  ‘Hmmm, I see.’

  ‘Is he still there, sir?’

  ‘No, he’s gone.’

  Flinch turned to look but there was nothing other than the mist. He reached into his pocket and a second later the blade of his flick-knife snapped open. ‘Shall I ask to see his ticket, my Lord? Perhaps punch it?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Flinch. They’ll be serving dinner soon and I’m sure you’d rather murder a nice steamed steak pudding, hmm?’

  ‘I’m not overly hungry, sir. I ate a most satisfying luncheon.’

  ‘Did you, indeed? Well, I’m famished. So, why don’t you toddle off now and get yourself ready for dinner, okay?’

  ‘But what about the snooper, sir?’

  Underwood smiled. ‘Oh, don’t concern yourself with him. I think I might seek him out myself. Perhaps he’d like to join me for dinner?’

  Flinch nodded and closed the blade of his knife. ‘Right you are then, sir.’ He bowed slightly before turning and walking off in the direction of his cabin.

  Underwood watched him go, and then rubbed his hands briskly together. The mist was chill and damp and he wished he’d had Flinch bring him along a warm coat. Still, he’d soon warm up. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and struck out in the direction in which he’d seen their observer skulk off a few minutes earlier.

  His search was brief; as he turned the corner, he almost ran straight into him. The man started and Underwood held up his hands in apology. ‘Oh. I do beg your pardon. I was just out for a vigorous stroll around the deck. I didn’t expect anyone else to be about; it’s such a dismal evening.’

  The man in the bowler hat laughed nervously. ‘Oh well, no harm done.’ He made as if to continue, but Underwood laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘I say, pardon me, but have we met before somewhere?’

  The man frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but, er ...’

  Underwood smiled. ‘I know, England’s not exactly a goldfish bowl, is it? But I was just thinking perhaps we’d met in Algeria. You know, ex-pats, small communities?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not an ex-pat.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Good evening.’ The man again attempted to walk away.

  ‘So, are you here on business or pleasure?’

  The man stopped and turned back. ‘If you must know, I’m travelling on business.’

  ‘Ahhh, I thought as much,’ Underwood chuckled. ‘I do hope you don’t mind me being so forward, but as soon as I saw the bowler I thought, ah, there’s a fellow Englishman.’

  ‘Really? Well, congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. May I ask what business you’re in?’

  ‘Carpets.’

  ‘Oh? How interesting.’

  ‘Not really. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for dinner.’ The man turned and walked on.

  ‘I mean,’ Underwood persisted, walking after him. ‘It’s interesting because I thought you may be something else. A detective perhaps.’

  The man stopped. He answered without turning. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered if perhaps you might be following my companion and I?’

  The man turned and looked back. He frowned. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, just the way you were watching us earlier on. I thought perhaps you might be a sleuth of some sort, perhaps from Scotland Yard.’

  The man smiled uncertainly. ‘You have a vivid imagination, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Underwood strolled up to the man and extended his hand. ‘My name’s Underwood.’

  The man looked at the hand for a moment before taking it. ‘Jenkins. Harry Jenkins.’

  ‘Of the Yard?’

  ‘No, nothing so grand, Mr Underwood.’

  ‘It’s Lord Underwood, actually. Sorry, I should have mentioned that earlier. I keep forgetting; you’ve no idea who I am.’

  Jenkins raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, a Lord, eh? I didn’t notice a Lord on the passenger manifest.’

  ‘Really, Mr Jenkins? Why were you looking at the passenger manifest?’

  ‘I, er, I always like to know who I’m travelling with. It pays to know.’

  ‘Oh yes, always on the lookout for a potential carpet sale eh?’ Underwood took out his cigarettes and opened the case to Jenkins. ‘Fag?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jenkins took one and reached into his coat pocket for a box of matches. ‘So, er, as I was saying, your Lordship. It’s strange, you not being on the passenger manifest. I’d have thought you’d have been at the top of the list, being a member of the aristocracy and all.’ He struck a match and cupped it for Underwood.

  ‘I like to keep a low profile when I’m travelling, Mr Jenkins,’ Underwood lit his cigarette. ‘I asked for my name to be kept off the list and the shipping company obliged. The captain and crew are well aware of my being here.’

  ‘I see. So, no red carpet treatment for you when you came aboard then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they must have given you some kind of a welcome
, surely?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They did? Oh. It’s just that I didn’t see you come aboard, sir. I saw your friend alright, the undertaker chap, and I watched as they winched that hearse of his aboard. But I didn’t see you anywhere.’

  ‘Ah, so you are watching us, then, Mr Jenkins.’

  Jenkins chuckled. ‘Well, a hearse swinging in a net isn’t exactly everyday cargo, your Lordship. A number of us were watching it, not just me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is a little unusual.’

  Jenkins nodded. For a few moments the two men stood silently smoking; regarding each other like chess players with cool aplomb. Then Jenkins dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. ‘Well, I think I’d better be getting along, your Lordship. I don’t want to be late for dinner. Nice to meet you and er, thank you for the cigarette.’ Jenkins touched the brim of his hat and turned.

  ‘Yes. Nice to meet you too, Mr Jenkins.’ Underwood watched the other man walk for a moment before flicking his cigarette away and calling out. ‘Oh, Mr Jenkins?’

  With an air of annoyance, Jenkins stopped and turned back. ‘Yes?’

  Underwood took a step towards him, moving into a pool of light from an overhead bulb. His sunken face fell into the shadow of his brow, yet his eyes shone, reflecting light from some unseen source. ‘Come here.’ His tone was casual, but firm.

  Jenkins swayed slightly with the gentle motion of the ship, his eyes held by Underwood’s. Then he walked slowly back to where he was bidden. When he stood face to face with Underwood, he stopped.

  ‘What is your business?’ asked Underwood.

  ‘I’m a detective.’ Jenkins’ tone was flat, devoid of emotion.

  ‘A police detective?’

  ‘No. I’m self-employed.’

  ‘Who hired you?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Haverlay, of Knightsbridge, London.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Their daughter was murdered in Oran by an Englishman, believed to be a gentleman or perhaps a confidence trickster posing as a member of the aristocracy.’

  ‘And you believe me to be this man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to support your belief?’