The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Morgan winced at the old man’s attempt at humour.

  ‘Constable McLean, come in,’ Gladys said cheerily, appearing behind her husband, wiping her hands on a worn tea towel. ‘I have just baked a batch of scones and can put the billy on for us.’

  Morgan winced again but what could he expect from the president of the local Country Women’s Association in Valley View. She was not famous as a scone maker, despite her years of trying. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harrison,’ he answered with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘I would really love a scone.’

  Morgan followed Gladys to the kitchen with Stan shuffling along behind. ‘You’re a bloody good liar,’ he grumbled so that only Morgan could hear him. ‘You can have my share too. I’m going out the back to read the paper.’

  Morgan ignored his comment and sat down at the 1950s Formica table. Gladys bustled around, producing tea pot, scones and her locally conserved apricot jam which Morgan smothered on his rock hard scone.

  ‘I suppose you are here about the papers and journal Betty Crawford has given me,’ Gladys said, pouring the tea for them.

  ‘That, and your wonderful scones.’

  Gladys stood up and disappeared from the room to reappear with a shoe box from which she lifted a pile of very old-looking papers. She passed them to Morgan. ‘This is what she found when she was cleaning out their back shed yesterday. I’m afraid the cockroaches have done some damage.’

  Morgan glanced at the papers. They were eaten away around the edges and the black spots denoted cockroach excreta. Still, he was pleased to see that they were still relatively intact despite the years they had been stored.

  ‘You know,’ Morgan said, turning over the battered, leather-covered journal in his hands. ‘I was only last night reading about a Mr William Crawford who back in 1920 had the local constable have a look at Captain Larkin’s house.’

  ‘That would be Betty’s husband’s grandfather,’ Gladys responded. ‘He was a great friend to Captain Larkin. Old Bill Crawford was also a veteran of the Great War and it seems that they had been in some of the same battles on the Western Front. His name is inscribed on our local war memorial to all those who volunteered from the town and served overseas.’

  Despite being a member of the local sub-branch of the RSL, Morgan had not really taken much notice of the list of names of volunteers from the town and district on the memorial, or of a Great War soldier resting on arms reversed planted at the end of the street. He felt just a little guilty at his oversight and took a small bite from his scone.

  ‘Do you mind if I take temporary possession of all these papers?’ he asked politely. ‘They might prove invaluable to the investigation.’

  ‘I was going to take them down to you,’ Gladys said, sipping her tea. ‘I have already photocopied everything and have sent off the copies to a university where they have someone who can translate the Russian writing for us. Hopefully when the coroner has concluded his investigation we will get the journal and papers back for our museum.’

  ‘I am sure you will in no time at all,’ Morgan replied, peering at the thick documents stained by time and wear. They carried ornate symbols of a double-headed eagle with a crown on both heads and in the back of his mind he remembered having seen such an emblem somewhere before. Possibly in a book on Russian history, he thought, as he stared at the Russian writing on the documents. ‘Maybe you could keep me informed of what your Russian translator has to say,’ Morgan added.

  ‘I certainly will,’ Gladys said. ‘Monique tells me that we should have something back fairly soon.’

  Morgan was jolted by the mention of Monique Dawson’s name. ‘Ms Dawson knows about the documents?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Gladys said, placing her delicate tea cup on its saucer. ‘She and I have formed what in your business you would call a task force – to enquire into the happenings at Larkin House in 1920. She is a lovely young lady and a credit to the community.’

  Morgan was slightly annoyed that he did not know of the happenings going on around him without his knowledge. Gladys Harrison and Monique Dawson were getting themselves involved in a police matter, albeit with good intentions.

  ‘Well, I just want to thank you for all your help in the inquiry, Mrs Harrison,’ Morgan said, rising from the table with the papers and journal. ‘Have you had a chance to read the journal?’

  ‘My goodness, no,’ Gladys answered. ‘The handwriting is very hard to decipher and the words written in such small size I would need a new pair of eyes to read what Captain Larkin wrote. Monique has promised to provide me with a full transcript as soon as she has gone through the copies I gave her.’

  Morgan nodded. Gladys stood up and went to a sideboard. ‘Being a single man I am sure you would always appreciate something home-cooked for your larder,’ she said, producing a plastic container of her scones for him.

  ‘Mrs Harrison,’ Morgan answered diplomatically. ‘I cannot thank you enough for your wonderful gesture. I am sure that they will go to a good cause.’

  Morgan accepted the gift noticing that Gladys’ husband had shuffled into the kitchen with a wide grin on his face. The two men exchanged meaningful looks as Morgan left the house with scones in one hand and the collection of papers and journal in the other.

  The telephone call came as a surprise. Morgan shook his head, placing the phone back on the receiver. He was officially off duty and the invitation to have coffee in the town’s one and only coffee shop that also doubled as the general store was not something he was called to do every day.

  When he walked in Morgan greeted the proprietor, a rather overweight young man whose real love was in the world of cyberspace rather than groceries and coffee. Monique sat in a corner, sipping a mug of instant cappuccino. She was staring absent-mindedly through the large glass window at the town’s memorial to the fallen.

  ‘Monique,’ Morgan said, standing over the table. ‘Your invitation is a pleasant diversion from my duties.’

  ‘I like coming here,’ Monique smiled as Morgan pulled out a chair to sit opposite her. ‘It may not have the sophistication of the cafés in Sydney but there is something very homely and honest about Rick’s coffee shop.’

  Morgan laughed at her description of a corner of a general store with its three tables and rickety chairs allocated for snacks. A panel of the latest video releases provided a partition from the rest of the store. ‘I am sure Rick would be flattered by your description of the space near the window,’ he said as Rick ambled over to take an order.

  ‘A mug of coffee like the one Miss Dawson has thanks, mate,’ he said to Rick.

  ‘No worries, Morgan,’ Rick answered. ‘Right away.’

  ‘So, to what do I owe the invitation?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘I don’t know if you have had a chance to read Captain Larkin’s journal yet,’ Monique said, turning her attention to Morgan. ‘But I think you may be able to help me with some of the material he has written. A lot of it seems to be in a military language I have no experience with. He seems to have used a lot of abbreviations.’

  ‘Normal stuff,’ Morgan replied, glancing down at the typewritten sheets she slid across the table towards him. It was obviously a transcript that she had made on a computer and printed out. Morgan could see dates to each entry commencing in 1919 and it looked as if Monique had done a good job of transcribing what Morgan remembered of the soldier’s seemingly scribbled notes. ‘This is for platoon and this one for brigade major,’ he said, pointing to a couple of abbreviations. ‘I see that you have been busy,’ he added.

  ‘I was so engrossed in the captain’s journal that I sat up all night translating as best as I could,’ she said clearly weary from the effort. ‘I am up to where he returned to Australia in 1920. His story is fascinating and so sad. So much suffering he must have seen in war and yet he had time to reflect on the occasional moments of beauty he saw around him.’

  ‘In the Great War we lost more soldiers than in World War Two and all wars since,’
Morgan said. ‘It was a terrible time.’

  ‘You have been a soldier in a war,’ Monique said. ‘It is sad that we civilians give little thought to what you must see and have to do.’

  Morgan shifted in his chair. He had once been a soldier but that was another life, one he knew he could never explain to one who had not been there. ‘Kind of good that you don’t,’ he shrugged. ‘Soldiering is something outside all the good we know in our society.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Monique sighed.

  Rick placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of Morgan.

  ‘Well, if I can be of help with your work I will be,’ he said, raising the mug. ‘You are at liberty to drop into the station at any time.’

  ‘You know this town,’ Monique smiled. ‘The fact that I am sharing a coffee with you here will be gossip around town tomorrow that we are having an affair.’

  ‘Probably,’ Morgan said, returning the smile. ‘The town could say worse about me.’

  Monique looked away at his light-hearted comment. ‘I may take you up on your offer,’ she said. ‘I feel that the captain’s story is going somewhere very important.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Because I have read his epilogue and if what he has said is true then his story is one of the most explosive of our times.’

  ‘In what way?’ Morgan asked, leaning forward.

  ‘Gladys has informed me that you have the captain’s journal. When you get a chance, read the last pages and you will understand,’ she said softly, glancing at her watch. ‘I have to go, David will be home from Sydney by now.’

  ‘Sure,’ Morgan said, rising to his feet. ‘It has been nice sharing your company and conversation.’

  Monique extended her hand. ‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. ‘But I must get home now.’

  Morgan watched her leave then walked over to the counter and paid for his drink, knowing that Rick would be telling the next local to walk in that Morgan McLean and Monique Dawson had been having coffee together. Such was life in a small town.

  As soon as he returned to the station, Morgan pulled out the journal from the drawer of his desk. He flipped to the last pages and what he read made him gasp. Monique had grossly understated what she had discovered.

  Across the world in the offices of MI6, Sam Briars was also sitting up in his swivel chair as he read Monique Dawson’s file of the transcription she had made. The trojan virus he had planted on her computer was working well and he was able to access her files without her even knowing. ‘Bloody hell!’ he swore, scrolling down the pages. It was no wonder that any mention of the Aussie Captain Joshua Larkin caused such a flurry in the levels above him.

  This time, however, what he had on his screen would cause more than a flurry – it would cause the perfect storm.

  TEN

  Northern Russia

  August 1919

  Joshua watched the flickering lights and could hear voices raised in fear as the Bolshevik soldiers went from house to house in search of food and possible young men to swell their ranks for the revolution, whether they wished to or not. He lay on his stomach and used the binoculars to ascertain how many of the enemy had accompanied the field gun. He swept the binoculars across the village and could see the Bolsheviks smashing in doors. Had Locksley had time to escape? He hoped the English officer had some warning of the arrival of the enemy soldiers in the village.

  Major James Locksley did not have time to slip out of the priest’s residence. The enemy had arrived unexpectedly in what he had wrongly assumed was an isolated village too far removed from tactical advantage to the Bolshevik army.

  The door had burst open and five ragged men carrying rifles tumbled in to shout orders for all within the priest’s house to stand where they were. James Locksley stood at the centre of the room and immediately raised his hands to show that he was not a threat to the men menacing him with their rifles. Beside him, the bearded and black-cassocked priest also raised his hands while the priest’s dumpy wife sat frozen with fear by the fireplace. She was forced with a rifle butt blow to the back to stand with her husband where she trembled uncontrollably.

  ‘I am a commander from the 6th Lenin Brigade,’ Locksley said with a voice of authority, at the same time praying that the papers he carried from the real – but dead – Bolshevik commander would work. He reached with one hand to his pocket to produce the papers just as a sixth man entered the room. He was a huge, bearded man bearing a fresh scar above his eyes. Unlike the other men in the room he carried only a pistol in a shiny leather holster strapped to his hip. Locksley immediately guessed he was the commander of the forces outside. The big bear of a man glared at Locksley, accepting the papers and perusing them quickly. He did not hand them back but stuffed them in the pocket of his fur-lined jacket.

  ‘What business do you have with this enemy of the people, comrade Sihkorsky?’ the commander asked in a cold tone.

  ‘I am here recruiting the people of this village for the glorious revolution, comrade commander,’ Locksley answered, returning the cold stare. ‘Your arrival is unexpected. What is your unit, comrade?’

  For a moment the bear did not answer and with a speed belying his size he smashed Locksley in the face with his fist. The British major knew then that his bluff had probably not worked. He fought to remain standing. The blow had broken his nose, splashing blood on his assailant. Locksley was vaguely aware that the priest’s wife had screamed. As he reached up to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his sleeve he saw the Bolshevik commander draw his pistol from the holster, raise his arm, and level his weapon at the head of the screaming woman. A single shot caused her last sounds on earth to cease. She crumpled to the floor at the feet of her petrified husband. Snapping from his frozen fear, the priest let out a wail and bent to cradle his wife’s bloody head in his arms. Another shot followed and he fell lifeless across his dead wife.

  ‘Two less class traitors to the revolution to feed,’ the bear grunted, swinging his pistol on Locksley. ‘But you are a different matter. I don’t know who you are but it has been your bad luck to assume the identity of a comrade I know was killed fighting the British near the village of Onega. I will spare you for questioning. Then I will kill you.’

  With a gesture, the Bolshevik commander had Locksley searched, his weapons taken, and his hands tied behind his back.

  Locksley knew that he was a dead man. He only prayed that he would not reveal what the priest had told him minutes earlier but also knew torture was inevitable at the hands of a man who could so casually take life. He hoped that the two Australians would be able to avoid the Bolshevik patrols and make their way back to Archangel and brief Colonel Kingston that the mission had failed.

  Throughout the bitterly cold short night both men swapped sentry duty in the hide that they had made from fir needles and logs. Although they were around a hundred yards from the village they were well concealed from view. However, Joshua knew that the Bolsheviks might be well trained enough to mount a clearing patrol of the area in which case their hide would probably be discovered. Already he had formulated a fall-back position for himself and George some half a mile from their present location in more heavily timbered country to their rear.

  The short night gave way to an equally bitter morning with low, grey clouds. Joshua nudged George as he lay curled on the floor of the forest until he came awake and handed him the binoculars to take over surveillance duties.

  George wriggled forward, lifting the binoculars. ‘God almighty!’ he swore, pressing the eyepieces of the binoculars closer. ‘I can see the mad major!’

  Joshua took the glasses from George and focused on the hand-tied man being led between two armed soldiers. Even at a distance he could see the signs of brutal treatment; the British officer could hardly walk and blood stained his shirt. At one stage Locksley stumbled and was immediately struck around the head with a rifle butt by a guard. They led him to one of the houses and thrust him inside.
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br />   ‘Looks as if the major is finished,’ George commented. ‘His orders were for us to make our way back to Archangel.’

  ‘Don’t be in a rush,’ Joshua grunted. ‘From what I have observed of the Bolshies so far it seems that they are not a very professional mob. Probably just peasants snatched up by their revolutionary masters. So far all I have counted is around a dozen armed soldiers guarding the gun. And from what I can observe the biggest bloke out there is the commander, and the only ones with any professional appearance are three of the gun crew. They look like they know what they are doing around their piece. You notice that they didn’t send out a clearing patrol this morning. They must be pretty confident that they have nothing to fear in this part of the country.’

  George listened warily. He sensed from the way Joshua was speaking that he might be formulating some hair-brained scheme to rescue the major.

  ‘You know that we are under his orders to get out if anything happens to him,’ George said lamely. ‘After all, we don’t even know what the hell we are doing out here. Whatever the mission was is as dead as the major will be soon enough.’

  Joshua put down the glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m not going to pull rank and order you to help me,’ he said wearily. ‘But I wouldn’t want to face the fate in store for the major. It’s always been our way to help our mates.’

  ‘He’s a bloody Pommy officer,’ George attempted to rationalise.

  ‘And we swore to help him,’ Joshua countered. ‘Do you want in?’

  George rolled his eyes to the grey sky above. ‘What in hades do you think,’ he sighed.

  ‘Thought so,’ Joshua grinned. ‘It’s going to be easy with these blokes. All we have to do is hope that they don’t do away with the major before nightfall. Then we will make our move and rescue him.’

  ‘That easy?’ George said sarcastically. ‘The Bolshies mightn’t be real soldiers but they outnumber us with real guns and a semblance of being alert. What do we have?’