The Corners of the Globe

by Robert Goddard

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Sorry. I tend to imagine the worst when I’m tired.’

  ‘Shut up and drink your beer.’

  Max raised the bottle to his mouth and drank. He would have preferred whisky, but beggars could not be choosers. Bass was Sam’s favourite, he remembered.

  A draught of cold air from the kitchen caused smoke to billow into the room from the chimney. There was the sound of a door closing.

  ‘What was that?’ Appleby looked round suspiciously.

  ‘I think Jeremy must have stepped out the back,’ suggested Max. ‘Maybe he’s gone to the privy.’

  ‘Leaving a frying pan on the stove? That’d be typically irresponsible. You’d better check it’s all right.’

  Max sighed and made to rise.

  ‘Oh, stay where you are. You look all in. I’ll go.’

  With some relief, Max subsided back into the chair as Appleby moved past him. He closed his eyes and felt sleep flooding over him like a spring tide.

  Suddenly, he was awake, roused by the click of a gun being cocked.

  There were three men in the room with Appleby, who had a gun to his head. They were hard-faced, muscular characters of military bearing, steely-eyed and serious. One of them was pointing a revolver straight at Max.

  ‘Tell him,’ the man said to Appleby.

  ‘Tell him yourself, Grattan.’

  ‘That’s smart, Horace. Go on. Introduce us all. Name names. Then there’s no going back.’

  ‘Grattan’s with MI5, Max. Counter-espionage. So’s Hughes.’ Appleby nodded to one of the others. ‘Their companion is a colleague of mine, Meadows. Former colleague now, I suppose. No doubt they each have their own tale to tell of why they sold out. So does Jeremy, I’m sure.’

  Bostridge shambled apologetically into view behind them, absent-mindedly clutching the spatula he had been frying bacon with. ‘Sorry,’ he said in an uneven voice. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t walk into the trap.’

  ‘He means he hoped we’d walk into another trap somewhere else to spare his conscience,’ said Appleby bitterly.

  ‘Sanctimonious bugger, aren’t you, Horace?’ said Grattan. ‘You ought to know we had to force Bostridge’s hand.’

  ‘What have they got on you, Jeremy?’

  ‘Friendship, Horace.’ Bostridge looked genuinely sorry. ‘There’s someone I care about more than you.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ said Grattan. ‘Now, stay exactly where you are, Max. They’ll be carrying, Len. Check their coats.’

  Hughes crossed the room to where Max and Appleby’s coats were hanging. He found the guns and returned with them.

  ‘Good. Stand up, Max.’

  Max rose reluctantly to his feet. Appleby caught and held his gaze for a second, moving his head by a fraction of an inch to caution against resistance.

  ‘Search them.’

  Hughes frisked first Max, then Appleby. He found no more weapons.

  ‘All right. What did they bring you, Jeremy?’

  ‘Photographs . . . of the contents of the Grey File.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Bostridge crossed to the table where he had dropped the envelope containing the photographs. He pulled them out. ‘It’s a coded list . . . of Lemmer’s foreign agents.’

  ‘With a record of payments made,’ said Appleby. ‘Maybe you three should check it tallies with what you received.’ He turned to Meadows. ‘How much did you hold out for, Stan?’

  ‘You have no bloody idea how I was placed,’ Meadows snapped.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Grattan, though the expression on Meadows’ face suggested he would not find that easy. ‘It’s good of you to have lit a fire. Tear up the photographs and burn them, Jeremy.’

  Bostridge tore them up, as instructed, and dropped them a couple at a time into the fire.

  ‘Where are the negatives, Horace?’

  ‘Left luggage, York railway station.’

  ‘You should have gone on the stage with your sense of humour, you really should. Search their bags, Len.’

  Hughes carried the bags to the table and emptied them an item at a time. He found the envelope with the Grey File in it soon enough. But not the negatives. Grattan seemed well pleased, even so.

  ‘Does it look genuine, Len?’

  Hughes nodded. ‘It’s the Grey File.’

  ‘All right. We’ll return to the subject of the negatives later, Horace, after we’ve taken you and Max on somewhere.’

  ‘Who’s waiting for us there?’ asked Appleby.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Lemmer?’ Max looked Grattan in the eye. ‘I bet it is. He’ll want to inspect the file as soon as possible.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see, Max. Our orders are to deliver both of you alive if possible. It’d be no hardship to any one of us if that didn’t prove possible, though. So, consider yourselves warned.’

  ‘I really am sorry,’ said Bostridge dolefully.

  Max glanced accusingly at him. ‘So you should be.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Grattan. Then he turned towards Bostridge, raised the gun and fired.

  Bostridge let out no more than a grunt as the bullet entered his head through the bridge of his nose, shattering his glasses. He toppled backwards and crashed to the floor, where he lay motionless – and very obviously dead.

  ‘What in God’s name did you do that for?’ Appleby asked, his voice hoarse with shock.

  ‘No decipherer; no decipherment.’ Grattan swung the gun back towards Max. ‘Bostridge’s talents are no longer required. But don’t worry. His fey little friend is waiting to console him on the other side.’

  ‘Lemmer told you to kill him, didn’t he?’ Max cut in. ‘You want to ask yourself whether he told someone else to kill you.’

  Grattan took a step forward and pressed the barrel of his gun against Max’s forehead. But Max did not flinch. He had often debated with himself during the war whether his fearlessness was an asset or a liability. Maybe he was about to find out.

  ‘Go ahead and shoot,’ he said, staring straight at Grattan. ‘You’re the big man with the big gun.’

  ‘You’ve had a soft life, Max. I reckon it’s going to have a hard ending.’

  ‘Yours too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘If Lemmer wants us alive,’ cautioned Appleby, ‘he won’t thank you for delivering either of us dead.’

  It seemed for a moment that Grattan was seriously tempted to ignore the truth of what Appleby had said. Then something changed in his expression. He could not do as he pleased. He was not his own man. He was Lemmer’s.

  ‘All right,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘Go and get the car, Stan. We’re leaving.’

  THE THROATY SOUND of a car engine and the beep of a horn was the cue for Grattan to order them out of the cottage. Grattan held a gun to the back of Appleby’s neck as they left; Hughes, one to the back of Max’s. The darkness beyond the glare of the headlamps was utter, but the odds against fleeing successfully into it without being shot were long. They did as they were told.

  The car was a big four-seater. Max and Appleby sat in the rear with Hughes. Grattan took the front passenger seat. A bag at his feet contained the Grey File.

  ‘Try anything and we’ll shoot you,’ said Grattan, turning to face them over the seat back as Meadows started away.

  ‘We’ll be sure not to give you any excuse,’ said Appleby. ‘Won’t we, Max?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You should never have let Horace get you involved in this, Max,’ said Grattan. ‘It was a big mistake.’

  ‘I seem to just go on making them.’

  Max hoped his light-hearted tone would deflate some of Grattan’s confidence, though Grattan had every reason to be confident. He had them exactly where he wanted them. And his cold-blooded execution of Bostridge stood as a warning of what would happen if they resisted.

  When they reached the end of the lane and turned left, Max was momentarily puzzle
d. Right was surely the route back to Oxford. Then he remembered they were not necessarily going back to Oxford. There was no telling where Lemmer would be waiting for them.

  But it soon became clear left was a wrong turn after all. ‘Sod it,’ said Meadows when a scatter of lit windows appeared ahead. ‘This is the centre of the village.’

  ‘Don’t you know where you’re bloody going?’ Grattan snapped. ‘Turn round.’

  They came to a halt just before the village green. A short distance along the road was a pub. The headlamps caught its name: the Cross Keys. Three men were standing outside it discussing something which involved gesticulating towards the church on the other side of the green. The tower was a slab of blackness against the moon-paled sky.

  Meadows ground the gears noisily and reversed into a gateway they had just passed. But he misjudged the manoeuvre. Suddenly, the back of the car plunged into a hole.

  ‘Sod it,’ said Meadows again. He jammed the car back into forward gear and tried to move. But the rear wheels found nothing to grip and the car simply slewed round into an even worse position.

  ‘Get us out of here,’ said Grattan. ‘We’re beginning to attract attention.’

  It was true. The men by the pub had lost interest in their conversation and were now looking in their direction. Meadows pressed the accelerator and the car skidded and jolted – but stayed where it was. He grunted, grabbed a torch and clambered out. He was back within a few seconds.

  ‘We’re stuck in some kind of drainage ditch. We won’t get her out without a tow.’

  ‘Maybe we could all push,’ said Max.

  ‘Shut up,’ barked Grattan. ‘We’re not pushing. And we’re not getting a tow.’

  ‘What are we doing, then?’ asked Meadows.

  ‘You’re going to walk back to the cottage and fetch Bostridge’s car. We’ll go in that.’

  ‘It’ll never be big enough for all of us.’

  ‘Well, maybe whoever got us into this mess will have to travel by shanks’s pony. Why don’t— Oh no.’

  The worthies by the pub were now on the scene – three middle-aged villagers, beaming broadly. ‘Come a cropper, have you?’ asked one.

  Grattan had hastily tucked his gun inside his coat, as had Hughes. He opened the window. ‘We’ll be all right, thanks,’ he said airily.

  ‘We’ll give you a push.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘You won’t be going nowhere otherwise.’

  ‘There’s really no need.’

  ‘It’d be easier if you all got out ’cept the driver. Less weight, see. This a Crossley? I drove one in the war. They used ’em as staff cars. Probably still do.’

  ‘We don’t want any help.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Max. ‘Let’s get out and do as they suggest.’

  ‘Here you go.’ One of the villagers pulled open the rear door. Max almost fell into his arms.

  ‘Very kind of you,’ Max said, stepping lightly away from the car.

  Appleby remained where he was, with Hughes beside him.

  ‘They’re obviously right,’ he said. ‘What are we waiting for?’ With that he slid across the seat and climbed out. And neither Hughes nor Grattan lifted a finger to stop him. But what could they do? Shoot them all?

  Grattan and Hughes finally got out too and rounded the bonnet, moving purposefully towards Max and Appleby.

  ‘Lend us your torch,’ said one of the villagers to Meadows. ‘Then we can see what the trouble is.’

  ‘I’ve already seen,’ snapped Meadows.

  ‘No need to bite my head off.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave us to it?’ said Grattan, trying to sound reasonable.

  ‘Is the pub still open?’ piped Max.

  ‘Nah. But it’s the landlord’s birthday, so there’s a bit of a party going on.’

  ‘Any chance you could smuggle us in? I’d murder for a pint.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘We don’t have time for that,’ said Grattan. He pulled Max and Appleby away from the group and lowered his voice. ‘They’re not going to get you out of this. Tell them to leave us alone or it’ll be the worse for you – and them.’

  ‘A gunshot will bring a mob running from the pub,’ said Appleby. ‘How will that turn out, d’you think?’

  ‘You won’t be alive to find out.’

  ‘Maybe not. But if you bungle this and fail to deliver the file to Lemmer . . .’

  Before Grattan could fashion a response, the sound came to their ears of another car approaching along the lane. Its headlamps swept over them and the driver braked to a halt.

  ‘Can I help?’ he called.

  ‘That you, Mr Varney?’ one of the villagers responded.

  ‘Yes, Ern, it’s me.’

  ‘You’re out late.’

  ‘Troublesome birth at Rosehill Farm. So, what’s the bother here?’

  ‘These gentlemen have got their car stuck in the ditch.’

  ‘I’ve got a tow rope. I dare say it’ll be easier pulling them out than it was that calf I’ve just delivered.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Grattan?’ Appleby whispered. ‘We’ve got the local vet here now as well. It’s getting out of hand, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where’s the driver?’ Varney asked as he climbed from his car.

  ‘Here,’ said Meadows reluctantly.

  ‘Well?’ pressed Appleby.

  ‘All right,’ Grattan growled back. ‘We’ll take the file and drive away, but we’ll leave you two behind. Not a word out of place and not a shot fired.’

  Appleby hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘OK. Max?’

  There was no other way out. They all knew it. ‘Yes,’ said Max.

  ‘You’re gambling on the negatives, aren’t you?’ said Grattan.

  ‘We’re gambling on your common sense,’ Appleby replied.

  ‘You’ve been lucky. Damned lucky. That’s all.’

  ‘It’s all we need to be,’ said Max. ‘And I have a history of it.’

  ‘Why don’t you—’

  ‘Shall we get you back on the road or are you going to stand there muttering to each other all night?’ Varney called to them, a touch irritably. ‘I’ve a bed to go to even if you haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Grattan responded, the grinding of his teeth almost audible. ‘Kind of you to stop. Let’s hitch up the rope.’

  ‘WE HAD NO choice,’ said Appleby dolefully as he and Max hurried along the lane out of the village. They were heading in the opposite direction to that taken by Grattan, Hughes and Meadows. The signpost on the green had indicated it was five miles to Abingdon. From there, come morning, they could travel by train to London. ‘Without the file, Grattan would’ve had to report to Lemmer empty-handed. He’d never have been willing to do that. If we’d tried to hang onto it, it would’ve ended badly. Probably for several innocent bystanders as well. As it is, we’re lucky to have escaped.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it means all I’ve accomplished is what Lemmer sent me to the Orkneys to do: retrieve the Grey File for him.’ Max looked up at the grey-black sky, where the moon hovered faintly behind drifting clouds. He swore softly.

  ‘We still have a photographic record of the contents, Max. It’s not everything. But it’s enough.’

  ‘You mean your sister has a photographic record of the contents. Or will have, once the postman’s delivered it to her.’

  ‘We’ll make for Eltham tomorrow.’

  ‘If we make it to Abingdon tonight. What’s to stop Grattan and co coming in search of us?’

  ‘They’ll have to report to Lemmer first. He’ll decide their next move. I doubt even he’s capable of guessing where we’re going now.’

  ‘What about Eltham? Does he know you have a sister?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s not quite as categorical as I’d like.’

  ‘It’ll have to do. I don’t know what he knows. We’re going to have to pla
y this by ear to some extent. Was there anything in your bag that could identify you?’

  ‘No. Just clothes and shaving gear.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will you try to find someone else to decode the file?’

  ‘After what happened to Bostridge, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t have contacted him if I’d thought it was going to cost him his life.’

  ‘They’d probably have killed him anyway. You heard what Grattan said: “No decipherer; no decipherment”. And it could be us next.’

  ‘It could. But I’m hoping news of the negatives will catch Lemmer off balance. It’s a complication he mightn’t have anticipated. And it may not be the only one.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Bostridge. He wasn’t stupid. He might have foreseen how it was going to turn out. I’ve been thinking about what he said in the car. That business about Lemmer’s cables to Anna Schmidt from the Far East.’

  ‘Weihaiwei.’

  ‘Exactly. Weihaiwei. Why did he make such a point of mentioning it?’

  ‘Because the Grey File was referred to in a cable Lemmer sent from there.’

  ‘Yes. But maybe there was something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you remember what he said about “veiled messages” – the code within the code?”

  ‘Yes. Once you’d broken the code, you could still be left with a message only the recipient was equipped to understand. So, what was he really saying?’

  ‘There’s a chance – no more than that – Bostridge was trying to point me towards one of his assistants who was an expert in this field. She had a special . . . sensitivity . . . to what she called textual undercurrents.’

  ‘Who is this woman?’

  ‘Veronica Edwards. But she left the Service last year to get married. I can’t remember, if I ever knew, what her married name is. Or where she lives.’

  ‘It’s hopeless, then.’

  ‘Maybe not. Or . . . I’ll dwell on it. Something might come to me. Meanwhile . . .’ He stopped and fumbled in his pocket, then thrust a box of matches into Max’s palm. ‘Light one and hold it, would you? I want to write something down.’

  Max struck a match and saw that Appleby was clutching a pencil and a notebook, folded open. He held the match for Appleby to see by as he recorded a short sequence of letters and numbers. ‘What’s that?’