A Book of the Dead

by John Blackburn

  “Rich enough to start A.C.E. and, owing to the chief, the business grew. Not merely chemicals today, Miss Janet. Shipping and textiles, an airline and three civil engineering firms. Fun it was – rather like playing Monopoly, until . . .”

  “Until what, Peter?” He had paused and Janet prompted him. “What spoiled your money game?”

  “This – this damned book, Miss Janet. And the Devil of course. The Revd Mr Glyde moved to Scotland and he recognized the illustration. Not the bows of the Madoc sinking, but the old Hag of Skulda.

  “I’ll always remember the chief’s face when he got Glyde’s letter, though it wasn’t a blackmail note in the financial sense of the word. The Devil doesn’t want money, but needs power – the power to hurt and make people squirm.” Kent’s own face seemed to shrivel as he stared at the picture. “No signature and though the envelope was marked private, it had a Scottish postmark.

  “I won’t tell you what the message read, Miss Janet. It was obscene and vile and every word stank of evil. The Bent One had the chief in the hollow of his hand and intended to squeeze the soul out of him.

  “Squeeze slowly, but we were quicker eh, Mac?” He raised his voice and Mackenzie nodded. “Hired killers do exist if you can pay ’em and we could pay the best. We traced Glyde through his publishers, the Church Commissioners, and the Admiralty filled us in on his war record.

  “Our man found Glyde in Scotland and made him talk before he died, though I won’t go into details.

  “And don’t worry, Miss Janet. There’s nothing to worry about.” He looked at her with deep concern. “Professional assassins have a code of ethics like doctors and lawyers and our murderer was perfectly satisfied with his fee. At the moment he’s probably spending it in South America and he won’t talk.”

  “And Pike, and the old man at the publishers.” Janet felt sickened and not only by Kent’s confession – her own blood was to blame. “Were they liquidated too?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Janet, and you must understand why. Though Glyde was out of the way, the book itself remained a threat and a chap called Kirk came on the scene. General Charles Kirk is a retired intelligence officer and a pal at the Admiralty told him about the Sam’s gold.

  “Don’t suppose Kirk could discover anything sinister, but he questioned the chief some years ago and we don’t take chances; not where the firm’s concerned.” The launch was sliding under Waterloo Bridge and Kent spoke louder to make himself heard. “We decided to buy up every copy of the book and Pike was an obvious agent, but he started to ask outrageous prices. Either he’d become greedy or had stumbled on the truth. He had to die.

  “No regrets about Messrs Pike or Glyde, though I’m sorry about that old clerk at the publishers and I was desperately saddened by what almost happened to you the other night, Miss Janet. Only recognized you at the last moment and just pulled aside in time.”

  “You! Peter!” Janet remembered the incident. She and Tom, strolling towards the pub, a car mounting the pavement under the flyover and hurtling towards them. “You were at the wheel of that car?”

  “Yes, but you must believe me. When you told your uncle about Mayne’s interest in the book, he decided that Mayne had to go and I was appointed to be the executioner.

  “Please forgive me, Miss Janet. Just thought you were some friend of Mayne’s or his shop assistant, perhaps. Only missed you by inches, and you must believe this.” Kent lowered his head and he looked like a dog. A faithful, devoted dog begging to be pardoned for some misdeed. “If I’d harmed you, I think I’d have killed myself.”

  “I believe you, Peter, but what about Tom Mayne?” Janet stared at the bowed head with something very close to compassion. “Is he still on the executioner’s death list?”

  “Not unless you want him to die, Miss Janet, and there’s no valid reason that I can see.” Kent closed the book and held it over the rail. “What harm can Mayne, or anyone else, do without evidence, and this is all the evidence. The last existing copy of Men of Courage and soon it will be buried under Thames mud.

  “Only three things to do now, miss. Dispose of the book. Give the chief his Viking funeral and then . . .” He raised his eyes and stared at her. “Le Roi est Mort – Vive la Reine.”

  “Well, here we are at last and about time too.” The Mercedes had stopped on the middle of Tower Bridge and Kirk climbed out and peered upstream. “No sign of the blighters yet, so they’ve either given us the slip or are on their way.

  “And you . . . What the hell are you thinking of, man?” A chorus of horns and human abuse made him swing round and glower at Drudge. “You’re holding up the traffic and causing an obstruction, Sergeant, so don’t just sit there like a ruddy dowager. Get off your rump, wave ’em on and open the bonnet. If you peer at her innards pathetically, people might just think you’ve broken down and feel sorry for you.

  “God, that stupid fellow makes me furious, gentlemen.” The pandemonium had stopped and he rejoined Tom and Mott at the paraphet. “Though not as furious as the suspicion that our birds have flown.”

  “Have they, General?” Tom was also looking up the Thames. “Isn’t that the launch now; just passing Canon Street?”

  “Could be – might be.” Kirk raised a hand to his forehead. “Eyes not so good these days, but what do you think, Mr Mott?”

  “I’m not certain yet.” Mott studied a grey shape approaching the next bridge upstream. “Yes, that’s the Bully Boy all right. About three-quarters of a mile away and coming along fast. She’s keeping well over to port at present, and if that course is maintained we should meet her at the inner arch.” He squared his shoulders before marching forwards. “Ready, Mayne, and don’t worry. Feel no anxiety on my account. I may have been crippled in Scotland, I may look slightly ill, but there is nothing wrong with my heart. An Englishman’s heart beats for England, and together we shall strike a great blow for the old country and the world will ring with our fame.”

  “England! What a pompous boor that fellow is,” Kirk thought as he followed them. “England could only lose by Molden-Mott’s great blow for the old country. Factories would have to close, workers be laid off and exports diminish. Also a dead man’s reputation might be tarnished and stripped of all honour.

  “But why, Charlie Kirk? You gave Mott his instructions and he will jump because you put the idea into his thick skull. Why – why did you have to start a crusade against Simon Vale and his empire?”

  Justice – righteousness – truth? The search for truth certainly came into it, but there were other far more important reasons. Revenge – retaliation – a vendetta, were the key words.

  He had known that the tugboat Sam was laden with gold at Murmansk. A midshipman on the Madoc had told him so. The boy had written his parents a long, chatty letter. Enquiries about their health, news about the crew, the account of a novel he had been reading. Nothing that a censor could possibly object to, but if you substituted the second and third letter of every other word with an agreed numeral, you had a code. A simple personal cipher which he and Allan had worked out together, long before the boy joined the navy.

  Allan was only 17 when he’d written that note. A smart boy for his age, though he died within a week of composing it. Allan had met Vale, the Sam’s gunnery officer, and seen through him. The private message read. “V – mad. If hit – no survivors will be picked up.”

  Kirk still kept that faded sheet of paper, and he often looked at the end, which was entirely innocent. “Your very loving son – Allan Kirk.”

  That had been the start of Kirk’s enquiry and it had taken him almost forty years to be sure. He watched Mott and Tom station themselves against the paraphet of the bridge and prayed for revenge.

  Nearly half a century, prying and probing into the affairs of Simon Vale and A.C.E., and soon he might have proof. A little book to expose murder.

&n
bsp; Fifteen

  “You left those men to freeze or drown in that cold northern water; for gold?” Janet stared at Kent leaning against the rail and she felt no revulsion; only pity. “Why, Peter? Just a few cases of yellow metal. You told me yourself, that gold is virtually worthless and you must give me a reason.”

  “The metal itself had no real value, but it’s what you can buy with the stuff which counts. The chief – your uncle kept explaining that, and events proved him right.” Kent looked like an uncertain crusader, attempting to justify his cause. “We bought power, Miss Janet. Not only stocks and shares and money in the bank, but an empire. A great kingdom, and the chief has willed it all to you.

  “Yes, to you, Miss Janet. You’re the boss of A.C.E. now. You’ll sit in the boardroom and deliver orders, and I’ll stand at your side and see that there aren’t any mistakes. There could be a few at first, but not many. You’re the chief’s own flesh and blood and you’ll soon learn how to control underlings.”

  “Power” – “control” – “underlings”. The words made Janet think of a passage from the Gospels. “The Devil taketh Him up unto an exceedingly high mountain and showeth Him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them.”

  No, that quotation didn’t really apply. Peter Kent wasn’t the tempter. He’d fallen into temptation. Peter was just a loyal subordinate who enjoyed obeying orders, providing he respected the person who delivered them. Satan lay in the cabin below, and he had once been called Sir Simon Vale.

  And the offer was not really a temptation to her. Board meetings and balance sheets and endless conferences. The constant knowledge that she was living on stolen money and the lives of the dead. The prospect was appalling, and she tried to speak like her uncle and held out a hand. “The book, Peter. Give me that book. I wish to show it to the police.”

  “What! I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t understand.” For a second, Kent frowned and then he smiled and turned to Mackenzie who was steering towards the left arch of Tower Bridge. “Did you hear that, Mac? Send it along to Scotland Yard with the illustration ripped out, of course; very funny? That will puzzle our brave boys in blue and tell ’em nothing. Just the kind of thing the chief might have thought of, and you’re a chip off the old block, all right, miss.”

  “I’m not joking, Peter, and that book must go to Scotland Yard with the evidence intact.” Janet stared at his eyes and she spoke very slowly. “I never wanted control of the firm, you see, and I can’t accept it now, though I don’t imagine you’ll go to prison. Your hired killer won’t talk and the Madoc sank years ago. A good barrister will show that you and Mac were just ratings, obeying their officer’s orders, and didn’t understand the consequences.”

  “You honestly think that that’s important. That my life and Mackenzie’s matter? Well, you’re wrong, Miss Janet – terribly wrong.” He stared at her with complete conviction. “The average human being isn’t worth a damn, and death has no meaning, the only significant thing is the Geist – The will to create and conquer. I know that’s true, miss. The chief said it long ago ‘Open the door when opportunity knocks’ was one of his favourite maxims.”

  “Then my uncle contaminated you, Peter.” Janet stared at him and she tried not to shudder. Peter Kent’s face was not merely altering, he was growing younger. His middle-aged features had lost their wrinkles and a boy’s face was watching her. By some trick of light or shadow, his dark city suit had become a uniform and his eyes were angry. The boy had heard his idol insulted and he would repay.

  “Contaminated, Janet!” he said and for the first time, the mistress-servant relationship vanished, and he did not use the formal ‘miss’. “Contaminated and corrupted by the best and noblest man who ever lived. Sir Simon offered you everything, Janet Vale, but you rejected his offer, though I wonder why.

  “Oh, no my girl, don’t try that.” Her hand had shot out to grab the book from him, but the boy moved away quickly. “Yes, I do know why you hate money and power and authority, and there’s only one possible reason.” With the book behind his back, he studied her through his Peter Pan eyes, which would never grow old.

  “You’re not Janet Vale, but an impostor – a ruddy by-blow. I remember your parents: father a weakling and mother a tart. Madelaine, the Mare, the chief used to call her and as always he was right. Mummy would lift up her skirt for a dog, if he barked politely and not because of lust. Mercy and Christian charity were the Mare’s motives and her daughter had better start praying to Christ right now.” He tossed the book onto a hatch cover and then he came at her. His fingers round her throat, a knee in her belly and Janet went down. Down onto the deck with Kent on top of her, and she didn’t struggle or cry out. She was too tired and sickened to resist Peter Kent and she also felt sorry for him.

  But those weren’t the only reasons for her lack of resistance. The launch was almost under Tower Bridge and from the bridge two figures were leaping towards them. With her head on the deck boards and Kent’s hand throttling her Janet caught a brief glimpse of the descent, though the first figure failed to reach his target. He hit the water some six feet from the Bully Boy’s bow, but the second man was more accurate. Tom Mayne’s feet landed slap on Mackenzie’s shoulders, Kent’s fingers tightened and daylight went out.

  “Janet – tell me that you’re all right.” “Of course, the girl’s ok, but keep pulling, man. Do you expect me to help you with a broken arm and a fractured leg?”

  The voices seemed very faint and far away, but when Janet opened her eyes, she recognized the unpleasant face of Mr Molden-Mott, and he had suffered even more damage. His other eye was blackened, his left hand clutched her ankle and his right leg trailed limply behind him. “Of course, Miss Vale’s all right at the moment, but she won’t be for long, and neither will I, unless you put your back into it and get us ashore.”

  “I’m doing my best, Mott. My very best, but how much farther have we to go?” Tom Mayne’s hands were under her armpits. He was dragging her and Mott along, and the cold told her that they were in the water.

  “Five – ten minutes, if you keep up the pace, so save your breath and stop us floating away downstream.” Mott gasped either from pain or irritation. “ ‘Best!’ The young fool keeps repeating his foolishness, Miss Vale, but what really took place? I prudently leapt a few feet from the launch’s bows and grabbed a line hanging over her side. I dragged myself up and suffered considerable injuries, beating off your attacker, but he . . .” He raised his free hand and pointed at Tom. “Sir Galahad decided to make a direct assault. Jumped straight for the launch itself, and fell onto the helmsman. Knocked him cold and knocked out the steering gear as you can see for yourself. Try to raise your head, if that’s possible, and then tell me what’s about to happen.”

  “A collision.” Janet tried to obey his orders and she saw the launch clearly. The Bully Boy was still travelling fast, but seemed completely out of control and was swerving towards the Pool of London. “But, the book – did either of you pick up the book?” Though Janet’s throat was throbbing painfully, that was the important question. “Peter Kent threw it onto a hatch cover and one of you must have seen it.”

  “Didn’t see a thing, except that bastard who was trying to murder you. Maniacs are supposed to have the strength of over three normal men, and he certainly proved the point. Hurled me back across the deck and might have killed us both, if young Mayne hadn’t had the sense to rap his skull with a belaying-pin. Suppose I must have tripped over something of course, but it was a most miraculous escape.” Mott closed his eyes, as though thanking God for the miracle. “But, get on harder, Mayne. We’re not out of the woods yet. Not by a long chalk. The Viking’s funeral is due to start at any moment, so pull, man – pull, as you’ve never pulled before.”

  “Ouch!” Tom responded and Janet groaned as his knee struck her spine. “Yes, my uncle wanted to be buried at sea, but so what – why
the hurry?”

  “Good grief! – the ignorance of young people!” Mott’s thanksgiving was over and he opened his eyes and stared at her.

  “A Viking’s funeral wasn’t just a question of dumping the chief’s body overboard. The ship had to be destroyed too. Destroyed by fire, and I bet that launch has some pretty lethal explosives on board and a few detonators to trigger ’em off. That’s why we didn’t waste time trying to stop the engines. Had to get away quickly.”

  “The chief’s body.” Janet thought of Sir Simon Vale stretched out in the Bully Boy’s cabin. Did Mott’s words justify his actions slightly, she wondered. No, not at all. Her uncle had deserted the Madoc’s survivors and their would-be rescuers for gain. Tom and Mott were prompted by self-preservation and Mott’s next statement hinted at the truth. “You were out cold and I was only half-conscious when Mayne tossed us into the Thames. Failed to see that there was a lifeboat slung out to take those two men off when the time arose to say farewell to the big bad wolf. Bloody young fool didn’t know about Norse funeral rites. Imagined that the Bully might collide with one of the vessels ahead and shake us up.”

  “And so she will.” Tom’s voice was hoarse from exhaustion. “Look at that Russki, Janet.”

  “Where, Tom?” For a moment, Janet couldn’t see anything and then she heard the siren. They had floated a long way downstream and, out from the West India Docks, a ship was emerging with a tug in attendance. She flew a Union Jack at her foremast, the red Soviet ensign flapped at her stern and she could hardly be described as a thing of beauty. A freighter, of some ten thousand tons displacement though she looked much less. Cargo weight kept her hull low in the water and her name and port of origin on the stern were almost submerged. “Dimitri Donskoi – Leningrad”.