by H. B. Lyle
“This close to the navy?”
“Who do you think are their biggest clients?”
As they picked their way to the pier, Wiggins regarded the junks. They didn’t look like the kind of shipshape rig you’d see out of Chatham or Portsmouth. In fact, they looked like they’d been patched together from the scraps in Petticoat Lane. The nearest one had a sharp prow and three masts, with the central mast an impossible spike high up into the sky. Sails hung like rags and smoke drifted up from a brazier on the deck.
Kell marched up to the first ship. A straggly lascar appeared on deck, wary.
Suddenly, Kell rapped out a violent burst of language.
The Chinese watchman growled but stepped back, surprised. He replied.
Once again, Kell spoke in a loud and forceful stream, quite unlike his usual self. The lascar bowed slightly and disappeared below deck.
“What the—?” Wiggins couldn’t say more, flabbergasted.
“River Chinese,” Kell said calmly. “I served in China for years.”
“But . . .”
At that moment, an older man came on deck, sporting a lungi, a patchy beard, and a bare, hairless chest. He shrugged on a loose top, yawned, spat, and barked something at Kell.
Kell launched another volley of Chinese at the man, who Wiggins guessed was the captain. The transformation in the captain as Kell spoke was remarkable. At first bored and dismissive, he soon ducked his head lower and lower.
“Get the others.” Kell turned to Wiggins. “We set sail in twenty minutes.”
Five minutes later, Wiggins returned with Cumming holding his arm and Constance trailing behind. Kell was on deck, with the captain hanging on his every word. Constance didn’t blink an eye.
“You knew he could speak that?” Wiggins said.
“He’s my husband. Now, Vernon, firstly—is there breakfast? And do we have our own cabin?”
The cabin was the hold, and the four of them squeezed in between cargo bundles. A heady smell hung over them.
“You know, it doesn’t smell nearly as bad in here as I thought,” Constance said, sleepily. They lay down, four abreast, with the bundles crammed in on either side. “And my hunger seems to have gone.”
“Go on, sir, how’d you get the lift?” Wiggins asked, a drowsy edge to his voice.
“I served in China—against the Boxers.”
“Yeah, that explains the language. But that skipper, he’s scared. What you say to him?”
“I made some acquaintances while there—locals, you understand? The fact that I spoke the language rather marked me out in that respect. Anyway, during that conflict we had to make friends with some types who we might otherwise have, well, disapproved of.”
“Come on, Vernon, get to the point,” Constance said dreamily.
“Well, I happened to do some work with—or alongside—a certain Chao Lan.”
“That a bird or a bloke?” Wiggins said.
“Or a typhoon?” Constance giggled along.
“He was the foremost triad leader in southern China.”
“Ooh, scary,” Wiggins said. Then: “What’s a triad?”
He and Constance stifled their laughter once more. Even Kell found himself grinning into the darkness. “Huge criminal gangs,” he said. “Vast networks of smugglers, prostitution, extortion, murder.”
“Hold up. You telling me you just threatened ’em with murder?”
“Not quite. But they know I have very powerful friends. In any case, we will pay for our passage handsomely.”
Wiggins slumped back into his place, lying next to the comatose Cumming. Kell stared at the wooden deck above. The boat, now out at sea, rocked and yawed violently, but Kell felt calm, peaceful almost.
“You know,” Constance said at his shoulder, “no one’s asked me what I found in the hotel rooms at Borkum.” She help up a small pamphlet, just visible in the light of the swinging lantern. “My German’s not all that gut, but it looks like a sketch of the naval positions.”
“Is that right?” Wiggins said.
“Vernon, this could save your precious Service—if nothing else, it shows some intelligence.”
“I believe it could,” he said, and laughed. “Whitehall could do with some intelligence,” he added.
Constance stuffed the papers back into the front of her dress and shifted position. “Such a pleasant smell,” she said.
“Ain’t it,” Wiggins muttered.
“Wiggins,” Constance called softly over her husband’s prone body. “Tell me again, why are you here?”
“Why?” Wiggins said. “Well, my best mate was binned by a gang of Latvian anarchists, and ever since, I’ve tried to bring ’em down. Body by the name of Peter the Painter.”
“A decorator? How odd, or an artist?”
“A killer.”
“I hope you do this in your spare time,” Kell said, as if it were the greatest joke. And then, in a wondering tone, “Is this why you were late for the funeral?”
Wiggins smiled to himself. “I was wiv friends, ain’t that right, Mrs. Kell?”
No one seemed to mind, or even to react very quickly to, what anyone said. Another silence settled over them as the boat jagged and leapt in the wind.
“I thought you were going to say you were a patriot,” Constance said. “Your reason for joining up.”
Kell and Wiggins laughed again, as if Constance had landed a great joke. She joined in after a moment, then yawned.
“What is that smell? It’s very, very pleasant,” she said at last.
The ship slewed violently, then righted itself. “Some sort of flower? Poppies?” Constance said after a moment, as if to herself, almost asleep.
“No, no . . .” Kell drifted off, his head too heavy to lift.
Wiggins felt his muscles slacken, his eyelids droop. “It ain’t poppies,” he said, his voice a soporific whisper. “It’s opium.”
13
“Where the bally hell have you been?”
Kell sat down and beckoned to the elderly waiter. “A double whisky and soda, and a cheroot.”
“Make that two,” Soapy said. “Out with it, man. I’ve been trying to lay a hand on you for weeks. I’ve seen more of the new King than you. And what the devil’s wrong with your eyes? You look as if you’ve been swimming in a gin bath.”
Kell relaxed into the chair. As soon as they arrived back in England, he’d sent Wiggins to the office and Constance home to Hampstead. Kell had rushed straight to see Soapy, whom he’d found in the Bengal Lounge of their club. He knew that his chance of surviving in the job depended on honesty, relied on speed, and trusted to delicacy—the delicacy of unstated blackmail.
“Glad to hear you’ve been hobnobbing with royalty,” Kell said. “I trust we’re in safe hands?”
“Of course,” Soapy said shortly. “But what of you?”
Kell lit the cheroot and explained what had happened: Cumming’s ill-advised rescue mission, the night in Borkum, the arrest, the scrap of useful information, and the escape. “The arrest will be in the German papers by tomorrow, and here by the next day,” he said finally. “I thought I’d better give you a warning. And an explanation.”
Soapy whistled. “Thank you. The warning will be most helpful.”
“You didn’t know anything about Brandon and Trench’s mission to Germany? Beforehand, I mean?” Kell asked, offhand.
Soapy drew on his smoke and ignored the question. “You got some useful intelligence, you say? That’s important.”
Kell hailed the waiter once more. “Could I have some biscuits, please? And cheese, and perhaps a salad. And maybe a chop?”
“Hungry, are you? Funny you should say chop, though,” Soapy said. “We were about to cut you off, old man. Quinn’s champing at the bit.”
“You don’t have to be in intelligence to know that.”
“Right you are. You may be a soldier, but you’ve picked up the civil servant’s strongest weapon—delay!”
“Not an issue anymore, though,
is it?” Kell said as he tucked into his food. “You can’t fire me now.”
“Why not?”
Kell considered for a moment. “You can hardly sack the head of the Bureau in response to a failed mission to Germany, when that very mission is meant to be unofficial. It’s as good as claiming that Brandon and Trench were there under orders.”
“It needn’t be made public.”
Kell picked up his glass. “Word gets about, Soapy, you know that.” There was the threat. Kell held Soapy’s eye a touch longer than necessary. If they fired him, word would get about—Kell would make sure of that, and Soapy knew it.
“Ha!” Soapy said, and broke the stare. “There’s no need for anything unpleasant—not just yet, anyway. The PM’s got other things on his mind.”
“Oh?” Kell mumbled. A deeply veined Stilton had arrived, with a splay of Bath Olivers. He fell on them without hesitation.
Soapy looked at him curiously for a moment, pulled at his cheroot, and continued. “We’re nearly into September. Parliament’s due back soon, and it looks as if there’ll be another election. Can’t have the bally Irish propping up the government for long. Coalition never works, not with this hoo-ha in the Lords to boot. I’ll just talk, shall I? No need to nod—seems as if you haven’t eaten in a week.
“As you know, there’s been rather a lot of trouble in the country this summer, and it’s only getting worse. Not only are the Commons and the Lords at loggerheads, but the industrial unrest is quite unsettling. And it’s growing. That’s not to mention these wretched suffragettes.” Soapy paused and idly examined his half-smoked cheroot to let the thought sink in. “Yes, I rather think Quinn and Special Branch may have too much on their plate just now to start chasing Germans after all. Still, you’ve got to keep up your end of the bargain, Kell, the PM won’t forget about this leak forever. Have you any news?”
Kell dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. The one fact he’d omitted to tell Soapy about the escapade in Germany was the conversation he’d heard between the German naval intelligence officer and the policeman that they already knew to look for Brandon and Trench. In other words, for all their incompetence, the two Marines had almost certainly been betrayed into the bargain. Cumming had been too feverish to make much sense after the boat journey, but Kell planned to get out of him exactly who had known of the mission beforehand. It was yet more evidence of a hidden hand at work, Van Bork’s hand, stretching into the heart of Whitehall and plucking out its innermost secrets. The fact that Brandon and Trench were so maladroit had disguised the betrayal, but betrayal there must have been.
He folded the napkin neatly. “The net is tightening,” Kell said at last. “It will take some time, but the list of suspects is shrinking. We will find our man, whoever he is. I promise you.” He freighted this last sentence with as much gravity as possible. After all, Soapy himself wasn’t above suspicion. He wasn’t Caesar’s wife.
“Very good,” Soapy replied airily. He never quite said what he meant, but it was clear enough that the Bureau had been given another chance, at least in the short term. What was less clear was what he, or Quinn for that matter, knew about Constance. Probably more than him, Kell thought with a bitter pang.
Soapy looked at his watch. “This Brandon and Trench business won’t reach the papers until tomorrow, you say?”
“In Germany. Here, two days at least.”
“Good. I won’t have to convene the Committee until tomorrow. Care for another?” he said.
Kell shook his head. “The office . . . I should go.”
“Jolly good. Listen, can you get us a German spy to play with? Tit for tat, as it were? Someone to arrest when this news hits the papers. I fancy a couple of the chaps in the Committee—the politicians, you understand—might request that. A counterblast.”
“There is no one important.”
“No one at all?”
Kell stood up and dusted the cheese crumbs from his trousers. He couldn’t quite remember how it had happened that Soapy had become his de facto boss, that reporting lines of the Secret Service now ran somehow—seemingly without anyone writing it down or making the decision—straight to Number Ten itself, via the oleaginous, disaffected form of his old school chum, Tobias Etienne Gerard Marchmont Pears. Still fagging for him, twenty-odd years later. Then as now, Soapy’s commands were always lightly dropped, but miss them at your peril.
“We’ll make an arrest,” he said at last. “Once the news breaks.”
“Just so.” Soapy raised his glass. “You know, funny thing about your business. Success is always secret, no slaps on the back, medals, or notices in The Times. But failure? Failure is writ large across the world. Good luck, old bean. And give my best to Constance.”
“Helm,” Wiggins said as soon as Kell got back to the office. “Portsmouth.”
“He’s hardly a big wheel, is he? I doubt he’s a spy at all.”
“There ain’t no obvious spies! But pick up Helm. He’s been sketching Portsmouth for months.”
“Get down there tomorrow, take the train.”
“Nah, get the cops to do it. You go down there.”
“I think that opium may have gone to your head. You do realize I am still the chief of this operation?”
Wiggins sighed heavily. He’d been waiting in the office for Kell since they’d returned to London earlier that day. He sat in the swivel chair opposite the desk and patiently explained: “You should get the credit. I’m secret, ain’t I?”
“Too busy with finding Peter the Painter for yourself, is that it?” Kell snapped, although he could see the truth in what Wiggins said.
Wiggins shook his head. “Gotta find digs, ain’t I? Recover from me German holidays.”
“I suspect it’s best if we don’t mention that again. Cumming, by the way, intends to pay you ten pounds from his special dispensation fund. When he recovers. He has gone to bed.”
Wiggins whistled.
“I think you’ve finally won him over. Although he’s most annoyed about losing his swordstick.”
“A tenner, eh?” Wiggins said. “I didn’t pick him as a spender.”
Kell shuffled his papers in an attempt to reassert his authority. “I will go to Portsmouth tomorrow and set Helm’s arrest in train. It is the best course of action. You, on the other hand, must get back to our main job. We need to find this leak.”
“Gi’ us a chance. I cleared Carter, didn’t I, and the other clerks.”
“I suspect our friends Bernie and Viv were betrayed too.”
Wiggins leaned forward in his chair, alert. “That must tighten the circle. Who the old man tell?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m assuming Foreign Office, Admiralty, possibly War.”
“It rules out the cops, though, don’t it?”
“Yes, I think it does. In the meantime, I’ve got a list here of the ministers and their key assistants, with home addresses. You were meant to pick this up a while ago, remember? But instead, you decided to take a holiday to the Canaries.”
“I’ve already told you, that weren’t my idea.”
“We need to get to this immediately.”
“Can’t I at least have a sandwich first?”
Kell opened a letter on his desk, ignoring Wiggins’s entreaty. It was from Churchill. “And I have orders here from the Home Office with which you’ll need to help me. Yes, yes.”
“No time for a beer?”
Kell looked up from the papers. Wiggins was a mess. His hair lay tangled about his face, stubble smudged his chin, and his eyes peered at him, pink and watery. He even had a rip in his collar.
“Very well. Report back here on Monday.”
Kell looked down again, but Wiggins hadn’t moved. “What is it now?”
“I need cash, for a scratcher.”
Kell tutted, but pulled out some change.
“I’ll pay you back when I gets me tenner,” Wiggins added, wearily.
A thought suddenly struck Kell. It was Wiggins’s op
ium-fueled honesty—the admission that his goal was to track down some East End anarchist—that made him speak. Honesty among spies. “This Peter fellow? You’re not going to get into any trouble, are you?”
“Nah.” Wiggins pocketed the money, then wandered to the door. “I’m going to the Library.”
“Ain’t no moolah coming in, least not what I can see. Two weeks. None of the girls come out neither, ’cept the brownie. She been out one or two. The boss’s missus?”
“I doubt it,” said Wiggins. “Go on.”
Jax cleared her throat and went on. “The big ugly ’un . . .”
“Tommy.”
“’E goes down the Bloodied Ax, once, twice a week.”
“What else?” Wiggins stepped back from the window and turned to Jax.
Since getting back to London from Germany, he’d taken a small room at the top of the White Feathers, a corner pub with a view to one end of Ranleigh Terrace. It was the closest place he could find to the Embassy. It didn’t have a line of sight to the big brothel, but it was as near as Wiggins could afford. From his high window, he could see any comings and goings south of the brothel. Once he’d found the billet—none too hard as he’d offered twopence above market for a fleapit with a leak in the roof—he’d set Jax to do a long-term recon while he put in the hours for Kell.
“It’s a bust. She ain’t in there, is she?” Jax said.
“We don’t know where Millie is. But something’s going on in there, Jax, and they know more than they’s letting on.”
“Wot you ain’t telling me? Why you care?”
Wiggins looked out the window again, down into the street. He watched as a dray horse pulled a cartload of beer barrels away. Steam rose off the horse in the autumn twilight. Someone called out from below, a pub argument breaking out. A glass smashed.
He couldn’t get Poppy out of his head. Dead, because of him. But what did she know? He could walk away, of course, let Tommy think he’d killed him. But that weren’t right, not when she was lying in a pauper’s grave because of him. He paid his debts, and he owed her.
But that wasn’t the only debt he owed. He owed Bill too, even if he was a dead man. He owed Bill justice, and he would pay that debt; he would find Peter the Painter if he had to turn over the whole of London and beyond. He would find him, and he would pay him out.
