by Jim Eldridge
Henry opened his lips to try to say something, but instead erupted into a burst of savage coughing that shook his frail frame violently.
‘No need to talk,’ said Stark. ‘I’ll do the talking for both of us.’
His father seemed to sink further into the pillows that supported him. He took deep breaths, which rattled in his throat. Stark saw that Henry was struggling to push himself up, and stood and put his hands beneath his father’s armpits, helping him raise himself up, before gently laying him back on the pillows.
Henry’s breath rasped painfully as he looked at his son – no, he glared at Stark. And then suddenly Henry reached out with a claw-like talon and gripped Stark’s hand, tightening his grip as he looked intently at his son, and the realization hit Stark. He’s not angry at me; he’s angry because he’s dying and he’s not ready to go yet. He’s telling me he loves me.
Stark squeezed his father’s hand in return, letting him know he understood. At this, Henry’s grip eased and he relaxed back on the pillows.
‘We’re going to do everything we can to get you well, Dad,’ Stark promised fervently.
Footsteps approaching made him look up, and he saw his mother appear.
‘I popped home to sort Stephen out after school,’ she said. ‘Mrs Pierce is taking care of him.’
Stark stood up and let his mother sit down in the chair. He noticed that she was out of breath. ‘You should have caught a taxi, or a bus,’ he admonished her.
‘I can’t be hanging around waiting for them,’ she said. She reached out and took Henry’s hand. ‘I’m here, Henry.’
‘I’ve got one more call to make and then I’ll be home,’ Stark told her.
‘It’ll have to be pie and mash from the shop tonight,’ said Sarah. ‘I ain’t got time for anything else.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Stark. ‘I’ve got to go out to dinner.’
She shot him an inquiring look.
‘Strictly business,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to meet a policeman who’s just arrived from America.’ He hesitated, looking around, then added, ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get home.’ He reached out and brushed his hand over his father’s forehead. It was wet with sweat. ‘I’ll call in later, Dad. Hang in there.’
Danvers put down the receiver and added Stamford Hill to his list. Out of the seven police stations he’d contacted, three had reported a recent spate of attacks on properties owned or managed by Jews. Most had been shops, with bricks thrown through windows, but at least one synagogue had been the target of an arson attack.
He was just reaching for the phone to call another of the local stations, when it rang. ‘DS Danvers.’
‘Robert, have you had a chance to talk to Lettie yet about Mr Cavendish?’ demanded his mother’s voice.
Damn, damn, damn! he cursed silently. ‘Mother, I was just about to telephone her,’ he lied. There was no putting it off. He’d have to make arrangements to see her. ‘Is she there?’ he asked. ‘I’ll talk to her now.’
‘You need to talk to her face to face,’ insisted his mother. ‘She won’t take any notice otherwise.’
‘All right,’ said Danvers resignedly. ‘Get her to come to the phone and I’ll fix a time we can meet.’
His mother hesitated, then said in annoyed tones, ‘She won’t talk to anyone at the moment. She’s getting ready to go out. Even though she isn’t leaving for hours. It’s ridiculous how long that girl takes to decide what to wear.’ She hesitated again, then said, ‘Cavendish is supposed to be taking her out tonight, to some talk he’s giving.’
‘On what?’
‘I don’t know. The moving picture business, I expect. But your father thinks it’s a ruse to … to trap her. Lettie can be very naïve and unworldly, for all her pretence at sophistication.’
In the background, Danvers heard his father growl, ‘The man’s a bad lot! But she won’t listen to me.’
‘All right, I’ll go along and keep them company,’ sighed Danvers. ‘I’ll say I’d heard he was giving a talk, and I was interested in the subject.’ He picked up a pencil. ‘Where’s it going to be?’
‘At the Mitre Hall in James Street. Apparently, he’s giving a talk to the British Union of Patriots.’
The pencil stopped in Danvers’ hand. ‘The British Union of Patriots?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. That’s what Lettie said. Although it sounds a strange organization for a talk about moving pictures.’
‘Yes, it does. I don’t suppose you know anyone who’s in this organization?’
‘Well … there’s Lord Wickford. And Sir Watkyn Keyes. And Lady Mantle. They’re all very respectable people, so I’m sure the organization itself must be above board, but it’s just what Mr Cavendish might be thinking of for after the meeting. You know, taking Lettie to a club, and so forth.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Danvers. ‘What time is the talk taking place?’
‘Eight o’clock. Lettie says Cavendish is picking her up at half past seven.’
‘I’ll be there,’ promised Danvers. ‘I’ll make sure I talk to her then.’
The British Union of Patriots’ headquarters was a small shop on the corner of a nondescript turning off Warren Street. The large shop window had a display of books and publications, most of them following the same theme. Stark noticed one book entitled The Jew Menace, another The Chinese Menace, while a third was called The Negro Menace. Another, with a picture of Lenin on the cover, was called The Murdering Bolsheviks of Russia. There were photographs and portraits of great British war heroes, including Lord Kitchener, with one of Lord Nelson standing proudly to attention in full dress uniform as Admiral of the Fleet, a telescope to his one good eye. The rest of the window was draped with Union Jack flags.
Stark pushed open the door and stepped in.
A small thin man who was sitting at a table reading a newspaper – the Daily Target, noted Stark – got to his feet and regarded Stark with a suspicious glower. ‘Yes?’ he snapped. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Stark from Scotland Yard.’
It was as if a switch had been thrown inside the man. The look of wary suspicion vanished from his face to be replaced by smile of genuine welcome. He strode forward, his hand outstretched.
‘The man who saved the life of the King! This is a great honour, sir! Please allow me to shake your hand!’
Stark forced a smile and shook the man’s hand. I shall have to do something about this, he thought ruefully. Protecting the King from a group of assassins had been a team operation, but for some reason the newspapers had selected him as the main focus.
‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Stark. ‘But we were just doing our job.’
‘Doing your duty, sir,’ nodded the man. ‘As we all did!’
The war again, thought Stark. It’s what links so many of us.
‘Chief Petty Officer Eric Short, Royal Navy, sir,’ said the man smartly to the unspoken question, and he snapped to attention and gave Stark a smart salute. ‘I was at Gallipoli.’
Gallipoli again, noted Stark. But then, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised; hundreds of thousands had been involved in the Gallipoli campaign.
‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m investigating the murder of Lord Fairfax …’
Short’s face darkened. ‘An absolute disgrace! Lord Fairfax was a hero. A patriot!’
‘Yes, indeed he was,’ agreed Stark.
‘You’ll find the communists were behind it. Or the Jews. Or both.’
‘Do you have any evidence of that, Mr Short?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it! The Jews are trying to bleed this country white. The communists want to turn Britain into Russia. They oppose anybody who tries to stand in their way. People like us. People like Lord Fairfax.’ He gestured at the large window. ‘We’ve had attacks by them on us already. That window’s been smashed twice. The door broken. With respect, sir, the police seem helpless against them.’
&n
bsp; ‘Was Lord Fairfax a member of your organization?’
Short hesitated, then said defensively, ‘Not officially, perhaps. But he was sympathetic. He knew what we’re fighting for! And once the rest of the people know the truth, they’ll be joining us!’
‘And what truth would that be?’ queried Stark.
‘That the Jews were responsible for the war,’ said Short.
Stark frowned. ‘I thought it was the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand.’
‘That may have been the trigger, but what was it really about? Money! Building up wealth! And we all know which race are the ones with the grasping claws when it comes to money, sir. Them and the Bolsheviks!’
‘I’ve been told the Bolsheviks are against private money,’ said Stark. ‘Communism is said to be about taking money from the rich and sharing it out to everyone.’
‘Really? Giving it to who?’ asked Short, and he winked. ‘Karl Marx. He was the man who started it, wasn’t he, sir? And what was he? A Jew. Most of the top Russian revolutionaries were Jews. Why did they do it? So they could get their hands on the riches of the Russian royal family. Their lands. Their estates. Their gold and jewels.’ He laughed. ‘Give it to the poor! Ha! The poor in Russia are as poor as they’ve always been. Only now the money and power are in different hands. Jewish hands.’ He leant in confidentially to Stark. ‘They’re trying to start another war, sir. So they can get the rest of the money they couldn’t lay their hands on last time. Our money. British money. Even German money. That’s why we have to be on our guard. That’s why we exist, sir. The British Union of Patriots.’ Then he frowned, curious. ‘But I’m not sure how we can help with the murder of Lord Fairfax?’
‘Clutching at straws, to be honest, Mr Short,’ said Stark. ‘Someone suggested that some of your members might be able to throw some light on a motive for the killings.’
‘How?’ asked Short, still puzzled.
‘Some of them might have had a social acquaintance with Lord Fairfax. Any information they have could help us. If I had a look at your membership list, I might spot some names it might be useful to talk to.’
Short shook his head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’d like to help you, but our membership list is confidential.’
‘I understand, but this is a murder enquiry. And not just any murder, but – as you said – the truly dreadful killing of a great British patriot and soldier.’
‘That may be the case, sir, but I’ve been given strict instructions not to reveal details of our members to anyone.’
‘Including the police?’
Short hesitated, then said, ‘The fact is that we have quite a few of your colleagues in our organization. Senior police officers. Very senior. As well as top military figures, and other influential people. Members of Parliament and from the House of Lords.’
Stark studied Short. The man was obviously sincere, and his sense of apology to Stark seemed genuine: he was a man torn between doing what Stark asked and following orders. But, as an ex-Navy CPO, Stark knew Short would obey the orders from his superiors.
Influential people, Short had said. Threats would cut no ice with Short, and if Stark brought in uniformed officers to forcibly remove the information, these influential people would have him thrown off the case. Discreetly, of course. And Stark was determined he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was going to stay on this case and find out who’d murdered Amelia’s former husband. Until he removed that cloud hanging over her, there was no chance for them to be together.
‘Very well, Mr Short,’ he said. ‘It seems I have to take this up with my superior officers.’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector,’ said Short, obviously relieved. ‘I’m sure that everyone wants to find out who committed this terrible crime and see them hanged. Everyone except the Jews and Bolsheviks, that is.’
Stark arrived back at Scotland Yard to find Danvers putting on his coat.
‘Off home?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Danvers. ‘I promised I’d see my sister this evening.’ He smiled. ‘And it turns out to be fortuitous, sir. She’s attending a talk Mr Cavendish is giving to the British Union of Patriots.’
‘Well done, Sergeant!’ he said. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘To be honest, sir, I didn’t,’ admitted Danvers. ‘My mother telephoned and told me that Lettie was going to this talk, and when I heard it was the BUP, it seemed a good opportunity to get inside and perhaps find out who they are and what they’re up to.’
‘Oh, I certainly think we know what they’re up to, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘Inciting hatred. But they’re also very secretive, from what I can gather. I certainly had no luck today at their headquarters in finding out who their members were.’
‘I’ve already got the names of a couple, sir. Lord Wickford. Sir Watkyn Keyes. Lady Mantle. According to my mother, that is. I hope I’ll be able to find out even more this evening.’
‘You’re certainly doing much better than me. Perhaps I’ll find out something from Special Agent Noble.’
‘Yes, sir. How was your father, sir?’
Stark hesitated. The honest answer was that Henry was dying, but he was reluctant to say it out loud. It was as though, as long as he didn’t put it into words, his father might pull through.
‘He’s holding his own, thank you, Sergeant. All we can do is keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Yes, sir. They are very good at UCH. A friend of mine had his appendix out there. He spoke very highly of them.’
‘Yes. They seem very caring.’ And coldly officious, he was tempted to add. But then, that was the same with any organization, including the police. And the doctor he and his mother had spoken to the previous night had impressed him.
‘Oh, I telephoned around different police stations, as you asked, sir, about attacks on Jews,’ said Danvers. He went to his desk and picked up his notes. ‘I talked to twelve stations, and four reported a number of attacks on Jewish properties in the last month. Normally, they told me, they wouldn’t have noticed, but there have been more than the usual number.’
‘The usual number?’ queried Stark.
‘What they meant, sir, was that there are often disturbances in most of the different communities – Jewish, Irish, Chinese and so on – but most of these are fights within the community – Irish against Irish, Chinese against Chinese. The Jewish community keeps very much to itself and looks after itself. But lately they’ve been reporting attacks on their shops and factories, and their synagogues, and by non-Jews.’
‘Where did most of the attacks take place?’
Danvers checked his notes. ‘Cable Street in the East End. Quite a few attacks there. Stamford Hill. Golders Green. Finsbury Park. Tottenham.’
‘Jewish areas,’ nodded Stark.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if there’d been others in other districts, sir, but I got the impression that at some of the stations the officers aren’t bothered. In fact, one officer actually said to me, “Who’s interested in a bunch of Yids?”’
What was it Short had told him? We have quite a few of your colleagues in our organization.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. That’s good work,’ said Stark.
‘You think this is what was behind the murders? This global conspiracy, as Agent Noble called it?’
‘I don’t know about the global aspect,’ said Stark, ‘but it certainly seems to be pointing towards something being rotten here in Britain.’ He told Danvers about what had happened at Finsbury Park: the killing of Harry Jukes and the apparent evidence implicating Israel Rothstein as the murderer, and his suspicions about PC Fields. ‘It follows a surge in attacks on the Jewish community in the area, which seems to be happening in other areas too, with the suggestion that the British Union of Patriots may be behind it. If Carl Adams had uncovered a conspiracy involving the BUP and the Ku Klux Klan, that strikes me as a more likely motive for their murder than any supposed revenge for Gallipoli.’ He regarded Danvers with concern. ‘In w
hich case, you’ll need to be careful this evening. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, sir,’ smiled Danvers confidently. ‘After all, I’m going as Lettie’s brother. And I’m pretty sure I’ll know quite a few of them, if what my mother says is right. They’ll just see me as one of their own social set rather than an investigating outsider.’
‘I hope you’re right. But be on your guard, Sergeant. At this stage we still don’t know exactly who, or what, we’re dealing with. According to a man I met at the offices of the BUP today, the membership of the organization includes quite a few police officers, and many of them very senior officers.’ He shot a careful glance at the door. ‘The fact is, apart from each other, we don’t know whom we can trust.’
SEVENTEEN
Stark was pleased to see Stephen’s face light up as Freddy the pie man spooned the food into the pudding bowl and stuck a paper lid on top to keep it hot. Pie and mash, covered with ‘liquor’, a parsley sauce, had long been one of Stark’s favourite treats, and he was delighted that his son shared the same taste. It was only a short walk back from the shop to their house, and Stephen cuddled the warm bowl to him in his gloved hands. Stark doubted that his forthcoming meal with Agent Noble would be as tasty, and wondered if he should have invited the American to join him in the delights of Freddy’s Pie Shop.
Sarah Stark served on to two plates, and looked questioningly at Stark. ‘You sure you don’t want some?’ she asked.
‘I’d better not,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to ruin my appetite and upset Special Agent Noble.’
‘Is that this American?’
‘Special Agent?’ piped up Stephen. ‘Does he carry a gun?’
‘He may do when he’s in America, but not here in Britain.’
‘Why’s he here?’ asked Sarah.
‘This case I’m investigating. Two men were murdered. One of them was an American.’
‘Who was the other one?’ asked Stephen.
Stark hesitated, then replied, ‘A man called Lord Fairfax.’
His mother shot him a sharp glance. ‘Lord Fairfax?’
