The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  One of the escorts began winking a light at him, and for one second he tried to read the message, but it was far too fast. Only when the whine of a bullet sparked against the metal tip of his prop did he realize he was being fired at. Schrader glanced down into his cockpit. He hadn’t even turned on the homing radio signal yet.

  They were Germans, all right. Albatroses, although which variant, he couldn’t be sure from this distance. No matter, they were all very handy little fighters.

  More winking, this time from the plane on the right, but they were at the limit of accuracy and apart from one thud at the tail, nothing seemed to come close. Probably new boys who hadn’t learned the lesson about waiting until you could do some damage before firing. He checked the controls, making sure they were free and unsnagged. He hadn’t really put this Bristol through its paces. It was steady, easy to fly and he suspected it would absorb a lot of damage. He might be about to find out.

  He reached up to the Lewis gun, and checked the safety was off. The gun was fired by a Bowden cable, which ended in a loop next to his hand. He pulled once on the makeshift handle. The gun stuttered briefly. He was in business.

  He dipped a wing and then turned to his passengers, pointing down at the fighters, so they understood, then levelled and pushed the nose up and began to claw his way into the heavens.

  ‘This has absolutely nothing to do with me!’ Winston Churchill fixed Holmes with one of his famous stares, then rose to his feet to point at the enormous map pinned to the wall of his office. ‘This is my domain now. The National Filling Factories, the National Explosive Factories. Glasgow, Chilwell, Banbury, the Arsenal . . . machine guns from Birmingham, rifles from Enfield, howitzers from Coventry. The outcome of the war depends on these establishments giving us the means to fight. And you come to me about a boat? One boat? Champagne?’

  ‘No, thank you, Minister.’

  Churchill, now the Minister of Munitions, walked over to a side table, yanked a bottle of Pol Roger from an ice bucket and filled up two glasses. He walked back and handed one to Holmes, who took it, albeit reluctantly. Churchill, he knew, didn’t entirely trust a man without a drink in his hand after five p.m.

  ‘Why haven’t you gone to Kell? Surely this is MI5 business.’

  ‘I fear I am not in Kell’s good books after exposing one of his agents. Amies.’

  ‘Heard about that. Peculiar business all round. But I suppose anyone can be bought if the price is right. What? What’s so funny?’

  ‘I couldn’t imagine bidding on you, sir.’

  Churchill looked suspicious. ‘Don’t flatter me, Holmes. Politicians are as venal as the next man. Except you bribe them with power and prestige. I wouldn’t be so bold as to call myself immune to such blandishments. What is it you want from me?’

  ‘I need to travel to France, to look into the log for this ambulance boat-train. It will have been signed off by the French railways before sailing. So the log will also have the name of the man responsible for handing over the train to the ship . . .’

  ‘Which was then sunk by a German submarine,’ Churchill said firmly.

  ‘Possibly not.’

  ‘One of those damned torpedo boats, then.’

  Holmes said nothing.

  ‘I am inclined to refuse you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are a bloody nuisance. It takes one to know one, Holmes. You are meddling for meddling’s sake.’

  ‘I am meddling for the sake of my friend Watson.’

  ‘So you have come to me for . . .?’

  ‘If I turn up at Dover or Ramsgate or Folkestone asking for passage to the Continent without good reason, I shall be turned away. As Minister of Munitions you can issue me with a munition inspector’s travel permit, ostensibly to check the stocks of shells . . .’

  ‘But, in reality, a permit to poke around where you are not wanted.’

  ‘Isn’t that the only way we uncover the truth? By poking around where we are not wanted? Something is wrong here, something about this boat worries me. I am in the twilight of my career now. I have served you well. Watson served you well in the tank business.’

  Churchill grunted. ‘I paid that off with the submarine in Holland. Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t feel I owed him something. Had to call in a lot of favours for that. Too many.’

  ‘Then we will be in your credit.’

  ‘A man at the twilight of his career is no good to me. One, I hear, with a heart problem.’

  For a man who claimed his sole interest was explosives these days, nothing much escaped the minister, Holmes thought, but held his tongue.

  ‘So it’s a no, then?

  Churchill peered at him through hooded eyes. ‘Are you going to drink that or cuddle it till it goes flat?’

  Holmes took a gulp of the champagne.

  ‘An ordinary man, in the twilight of his career as you put it, is no use to me, is what I mean. But a man like you, Holmes, can still do great service. I ask you this, however. If what you discover about this affair is detrimental to this country, what will you do with that information?’

  Holmes sensed not one trap, but several, waiting to snap closed on his ankle no matter which direction he stepped in. ‘I would come back here and discuss it with you before I took any action.’

  Churchill gave a wolfish grin. ‘That, Mr Holmes, is the only answer I would have accepted.’ He scribbled a note and held it out. ‘See my secretary.’

  ‘I need two passes.’

  ‘I thought Watson was busy with his own foolish activities.’

  ‘It’s for a policeman. An Inspector Bullimore. He has been charged with following me and I thought I might make it simpler all round for him to know my exact whereabouts by being at my side.’

  ‘And for you to know his?’

  Holmes inclined his head.

  ‘Very well.’ He added a sentence to the instructions and Holmes took it. ‘Be aware, Sherlock Holmes, that one day, perhaps not tomorrow or next week or next year, but one day, I will be calling that note in.’

  Once Holmes had left, Churchill drained his glass of Pol Roger and poured another, before placing a call to Vernon Kell of MI5.

  ‘I told you,’ he said without preamble when Kell was on the line, ‘that this Dover Arrow business would come back to bite your backside.’ He explained quickly what Holmes was up to, then listened to Kell’s reply. ‘Well, that’s straightforward enough. Make sure all the paperwork is destroyed at the French end.’ He took a sip of the fresh glass. ‘And then, I would imagine, you are going to have take care of the bloody idiot whose idea this was. What do I suggest? What do you think, if the Germans are on to what happened and looking for proof? EXTO, man. EXTO.’

  Watson found himself gasping at the cold, thin air as the Bristol continued to gain height. Both he and Miss Pillbody had seen the fighters climbing towards them when Schrader had dipped the wing, but now they were invisible to the two passengers. He wondered what the pilot was thinking. He could hardly engage his own side in combat. His best chance was to try to out-climb or out-run them. But was the British plane good enough? The Germans had devastated the RFC in the ‘Bloody April’ campaign, until the British had introduced new planes with better firepower. He hoped this Bristol was one of them.

  The answer came in a series of holes punched through the lower wing, sending scraps of material spinning away, and a steady whistling noise added to the laboured wheeze of the engine. The sky spun as Schrader flung the plane to one side. Watson felt his body pushed this way and that, and he and Miss Pillbody left the seat and pressed against the straps as Schrader twisted the machine through the air, losing height all the time. So he couldn’t out-climb them. He was going to try to outrun them.

  The plane fell with all the stability of a dropped handkerchief, apparently floating this way and that. Watson felt as if his ears were going to explode in his head. He was aware of another pressure, something strange. His hand. Miss Pillbody was squeezing his hand. Hi
s first instinct was to snatch it away. But then he squeezed back before removing it. It was comforting to know that someone else was terrified as they plunged towards the waiting sea. Even if that someone was Miss Pillbody.

  The Bristol shuddered along its length, crabbed through the air sideways, and then it was flying straight and level. Watson had no idea at what height – there were no ships for him to judge scale. They could be at five hundred or fifty feet above the Channel. The wind was tugging at Watson’s face and pulling back his lips. Even if he wanted to shout in terror – and he did – he doubted he could make the requisite shape with his mouth.

  Schrader looked back at them. Although Watson was sure he was mainly looking for his pursuers rather than worrying about his charges, he made a signal with his hand. Get down, it said. Make yourself small.

  Miss Pillbody slid further towards the floor and Watson lowered himself so that the top of his head was barely poking above the rim of the cockpit. But what use was that? All that stood between them and a bullet was wood and canvas. Any form of armour would slow the aircraft down, he supposed. Speed was everything in combat.

  His ears popped. They were still descending. The engine noise had increased to the point where it sounded as if it were shaking itself apart.

  A streak of hot air hissed by, almost parted his hair and he looked up in time to feel a splinter of wood embed itself in his forehead, just above the goggles. He swivelled as best he could to take a look at what was happening. One of the German planes was gaining on them and he could see the short bursts of fire it was issuing, trying to gauge range. Part of the Bristol’s tail tore away, leaving a long streamer of material trailing behind them.

  The Bristol drooped a few more feet, quickly enough to bring his stomach into his mouth.

  The air above them zinged and he felt the buffeting impact of the rounds on the fuselage.

  Miss Pillbody began to squirm and he put a hand on her shoulder, but she carried on twisting. It was a moment before he appreciated she was trying to climb out of the cockpit.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘Stay where you are.’

  But she continued to scramble up him, all elbows and knees, until her weight was pressing down on him. She pushed harder, and he grabbed onto her coat. He wouldn’t let her go.

  Her face came close to his. ‘Get down, you stubborn old fool!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to live. I’m a dead woman anyway. It will be Admiral Hersch waiting for you. He will take you to the survivor.’

  ‘Hersch!’ he exclaimed, moments before the plane rose once more and threw Miss Pillbody’s full weight against his chest. Hersch had been part of the plot to exchange Watson for Holmes on that cursed bridge in Holland. A spymaster. The creator of the She Wolves. ‘You’ve been lying to me,’ he managed to gasp.

  ‘No. But I haven’t been entirely candid—’

  Her body arched as a bullet spun an eccentric path through the flimsy sides of the Bristol and passed into her chest cavity.

  ‘Gott,’ she whispered. ‘Gott verzeih mir.’

  She coughed blood, wet and hot on his face, splattering his goggles, and then slumped down on top of him, pinning him into the seat. He was aware of a shadow above them, one of the two German planes, and then the sound of a machine gun loud and close, and then smoke and cordite streaming past him.

  He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

  They were saved by the Fokker escort that came up to protect the Bristol in response to the radio beacon. The noise Watson had heard was Schrader pulling the gun down on its Foster Mount so it could fire upwards. He had inflicted enough damage on one Albatros for it to break off and the Fokker managed to convey to the remaining one that he was escorting the by-now battered Bristol back to German-held soil.

  Watson managed to slide Miss Pillbody down a little and wriggle upwards. He could see the coast; dunes now, a long low line of solid land, as welcome a sight as he could recall. Something else warm spotted his face and goggles. At first, he thought it must be blood from a wounded pilot, but when he examined it on his fingertips it was black.

  Oil.

  He was no expert on engines, but it was clear this one was running rough, with what seemed like the occasional spasm before it picked up again. A thin flume of the lubricant was bleeding out of the system.

  Schrader turned and Watson made signs that they had a dead body on board. The pilot nodded and pointed to the sea.

  ‘What?’ Watson mouthed. ‘We’re going to ditch?’ He mimed the plane going in.

  Schrader shook his head. There was a few more seconds of charades before he understood. The engine needed all the help it could get if they were to make it home.

  He refastened the straps that Miss Pillbody had undone when she had climbed on top of him, pulling them as tight as he could around his body. Then he lifted the spy up, under the arms, until she was back laying on him. Then he gave the thumbs up.

  The port wing dipped and Watson pushed and heaved until the corpse, with the help of gravity, slowly slid from the cockpit. He had just a moment before Schrader corrected the angle to watch Miss Pillbody spin, her lifeless limbs flailing in a parody of flight, down towards the sea that would take her as it had so many others in this war.

  If the footman who opened the door recognized Bullimore, he didn’t let on. It wasn’t surprising. Bullimore had been sequestered in the East Wing, along with the other war damaged. Staff from the main house rarely entered. Bullimore remembered this one, though, Jepson, who never met any soldier’s eye.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Bullimore showed his commission book. ‘Inspector Bullimore. Bow Street. Is the gentleman of the house in?’

  ‘I am afraid not. On active service.’

  ‘The lady?’

  ‘Can I ask exactly what this is about, sir?’ And why you have come to the front door? was the unsaid component.

  ‘It’s rather a sensitive matter.’

  ‘Of course, sir. If you’ll wait here.’

  The door closed firmly on him and Bullimore turned and looked along the long, tree-lined drive he had driven down. It was dusk, and he could see the jittery movement of bats, making a last frantic feast before winter. The jerky movements were reflected in his stomach. This might be the biggest mistake of his life.

  To his right there were lights on in the East Wing, where he had been housed. If he strained his ears, he could hear voices and the scratchy sound of a gramophone. Clearly, there was fresh batch of patients in residence.

  The door opened. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir.’

  He walked across a vast, echoing hall, a circular sweep of marble columns with a series of double doors running off it. Jepson opened one set and announced gravely, ‘Inspector Bullicore, ma’am.’

  Bullimore didn’t bother correcting him. His eyes were drawn towards Marion, seated next to the fireplace in a room decorated as if any free space on wall or floor was an anathema. The walls were crowded with jostling portraits, there were four sofas, twice as many armchairs and two grand pianos. They must be items from the East Wing, he thought, emptied to make space for beds when the wounded came. Two four-foot high porcelain dragons in the Asian style guarded the fireplace, an elaborate confection of wood, tile and glass. There were also, he noted, some silken wall hangings with Chinese or Japanese – he couldn’t tell – garden scenes.

  She stood as he entered the room and held out a hand. ‘Inspector. This is very exciting. How can I be of assistance to the police?’

  He barely brushed the tips of her outstretched fingers for fear of being swept away in the sensation of her touch. ‘It concerns some robberies in the area.’

  ‘Robberies.’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘Goodness.’

  ‘Well, burglaries to be more precise.’ Idiot, he really hadn’t thought what to say while servants were present. ‘Specializing in fine jewellery.’

  ‘How awful. But I don’t think we’ve had any problems. Have we, Jepson?
’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s my job to make sure you don’t, ma’am, said Bullimore. ‘A few simple rules to follow.’

  ‘Well, sit down and tell me all about them.’

  ‘Shall I bring some tea?’ Jepson asked.

  Bullimore turned. ‘Not on my behalf. I won’t be staying long. Just some advice on security.’

  ‘The inspector won’t be staying long,’ she repeated. It sounded more flinty when she said it. ‘But tell Cook to put dinner back by half an hour, would you?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  The door closed and he listened for the man’s retreating footsteps.

  ‘Burglaries?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. The jewels being replaced by excellent forgeries.’

  ‘So it is someone who would have access to the originals?’

  ‘We believe so,’ he said, going along with the charade.

  ‘And where did you get this from?’

  ‘C. L. Pirkis did a story about it. In the Ludgate Monthly.’

  Her voice dropped to a croak. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  His mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘I needed to see you.’

  ‘And I,’ she hissed with some venom, ‘said I never wished to see you again. For crying out loud, you stroll up to the main entrance, announce you are the police and then offer some penny dreadful excuse. What do you think the staff are talking about at this very moment?’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. At least you still have staff to talk about you.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Try to make me laugh.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I’m surprised you have staff.’

  ‘Jepson there, who has a heart murmur he can turn on and off at will, is butler, footman and valet rolled into one. I have but one cook, a scullery maid and two housemaids, a nanny for Charles, and a gardener who thinks it is always time for a good prune. The garden looks like those pictures of the Somme. Oh, and thirty-eight gassed soldiers in the East Wing to visit like Florence Nightingale each morning. Keeps their spirits up, apparently.’