Agent of the Reich

by Seb Spence

  Barton looked at his watch: it was getting on for quarter to six. They could just do it if they left now. “Come on let’s go.”

  #

  Bronx parked the Alvis down the street from the boarding house, then put up the hood, so that Grace would not be discernible should the landlady glance their way. A little after six o’clock, a middle-aged woman carrying a tray covered in a tea towel came out of the front door and walked off down the street. As soon as she disappeared round the corner, the three of them got out of the car, crossed the road to the house and entered silently through the unlocked front door. Grace let the two men into her room, which was on the first floor, and they began searching it while she looked on.

  “The music case is on top of the wardrobe,” she said, “if you’re still interested in it.” Barton took it down and examined it. Nothing had been removed as far as he could tell. She stood watching them with her lips pressed together in an expression of silent irritation. After a while, she glanced at her watch: twenty five minutes had passed. “If you’ve quite finished rummaging through my personal belongings,” she exclaimed in exasperation, “I’d advise you to leave now as the landlady will be back any minute. Unless, of course, as well as humiliating me, you also want me to be thrown out of my lodgings.”

  Barton was satisfied they had made a thorough job. He had even examined the floorboards for signs of a hiding place, but there was nothing suspicious. “Alright, we can go now. I think we’ve checked everything. We’ll have to take the case with us, though, so that we can hand it over to the authorities.”

  Grace shrugged. “Saves me the trouble.”

  “OK, Bronx, go back and wait in the car. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  As soon as Bronx had left the room, Barton addressed Grace: “I don’t know how you’re involved in this, Grace, but I do know you are mixed up in it somehow. Your story about the music case is just a fabrication. This is a very dangerous game you’re playing – I don’t want you to end up in the dock, which is why I’m giving you this warning. Don’t have anything more to do with these people, they’re working for the Germans and they’re killers. Soon the net will be closing around them, and you don’t want to get caught up in it as well.”

  “I would give you the same advice, then,” she said in a defiant tone. “If these people are dangerous, you should keep clear of them yourself.”

  “I can’t – they killed a friend of ours. Bronx and I are going to make sure they get what’s coming to them.”

  She looked at him in silence.

  “Will you promise me you’ll have nothing more to do with these people?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  It was clear to Barton that she did not intend to heed his advice. He felt he had done his best to warn her off and did not know what more he could say. Disheartened, he left the house. He expected that once the Special Branch were on the case, if she had any further contact with Cobalt’s cell, she would almost certainly be arrested along with the others.

  “Well, what now?” Bronx asked when Barton returned to the car. “I have to say, I don’t think it was a good move confronting her the way we did. If she tips off the others they’ll do a bunk before we’ve found out where they’re staying.”

  “You’re probably right. This is not the way I thought things would play out, though. I was hoping that if we challenged her with what we’d witnessed, she would come clean and then agree to help us get the gang. I didn’t think she’d try to brazen it out.”

  “So what’s our next move?”

  “We’ll go back to the hotel and I’ll phone Colonel Minton. I’ll suggest he sends in his men straightaway.”

  #

  There were no phones in the rooms at The Star, so Barton had to use the public phone in the foyer. Colonel Minton answered immediately, giving the impression he had been waiting expectantly for the call.

  “Barton here. We’ve been to see the Kingsmead Players, and I’m pretty sure this is the gang. One of the actresses, Vivian Adair, is about the same age and build as Lucy Walker, so my guess is she’s Cobalt. And there’s something else: I visited this production in London when I was going around venues with pictures of Lucy. I suspect one of the actors, Elliott de Johns, alias John Elliott, followed me afterwards, because he turned up at a club I was at later the same day.” Barton hoped that this brief and rather vague account would satisfy Minton. He was still determined not to involve Grace, so again he held back from saying anything about tailing the Wilks woman.

  Minton seemed happy enough with the report and sounded optimistic, even excited: “You’ve done well Barton. Although what you’ve found doesn’t necessarily add up to a lot in itself, we’ve been doing some checking at this end and there seems to be compelling evidence that these people are involved in Cobalt’s cell. We’ve found out when and where the Kingsmead Players had bookings over the past year, and there’s an exact match with the times and locations of Cobalt’s transmissions, and also the transmissions from a new ‘fist’. In particular, at the time your colleague George Kemp visited Hednesford, the Kingsmead Players were performing at the Grand Theatre, Wolverhampton, which is just ten or so miles away. I’ve requested that a Special Branch team is sent up there immediately.”

  “As tomorrow’s Sunday, there’ll be no performance and they won’t be at the theatre, so there’s no point starting the surveillance operation before Monday. They’re going to be performing at the Lyceum for another week, which means they’ll be in Northampton for a while yet.”

  “There’s no time to waste, Barton, we need to get a team on station as soon as possible. We can get the cast’s addresses from the theatre tonight.”

  “Isn’t it risky asking the theatre management for their details? If they let slip that someone’s been making enquiries about the cast, the gang may suspect their cover’s been blown.”

  “I didn’t say we would be getting the information from the management, I said we’d be getting it from the theatre. A locked door is no obstacle to a Special Branch team – there will be specialist officers who can gain access to the building once it’s closed for the night.”

  “You mean they’re going to break into the theatre? Is that legal?”

  “Laws are of no consequence in this line of work. We have to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  “Yes, of course, I should have remembered after what has happened to Lucy Walker.”

  Minton ignored the barb. “You’ve done a good job, Barton. We’re indebted to you. But you need to keep out of the way now and let the professionals take over. So don’t go anywhere near the theatre or do anything that might jeopardise the operation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay in Northampton and I’ll keep you posted on developments.”

  #

  It was after three in the morning before Barton got to sleep that night: he lay on his bed for several hours thinking. At first, he went over the events of the day, dwelling on Grace’s hostility and her guarded and evasive responses to his questioning. He wanted to believe she was innocent and tried to convince himself that there must be an innocuous explanation for her conduct. Then he began to contemplate what his next move should be. The Special Branch team, he realised, could be in position watching Vivian Adair and the others from tomorrow morning. He had to make sure that Grace did not attempt to contact the gang, otherwise she would become a suspect as well. As far as he could see, there was only one way to do this: he would go to her first thing tomorrow morning and warn her again that it was imperative she keep away from them; he would then arrange with Bronx to mount a round-the-clock watch on her.

  4.

  Sunday, 18th May, 1941: Northampton

  As a result of his sleepless night, Barton was late getting up. Bronx had assumed he was having a Sunday morning lie-in and had not wakened him. Consequently, it was nearly 11am when he and Bronx pulled up outside Grace’s boarding house. Ba
rton knocked at the front door, which was eventually opened by the middle-aged woman they had seen carrying the tray of food out of the house the previous day.

  “Good morning, I’d like to speak with one of your guests, if I may – Miss Harrison. It’s urgent.”

  The woman looked him up and down distrustfully. “You’re too late, she’s not staying here any more.”

  Barton was alarmed to hear this. “It’s extremely important I find her. It literally could be a matter of life and death. Do you know where she’s gone?”

  The woman shrugged. “Dunno. Her and the gent she works with left about half an hour ago. They were performing at the Alhambra, you know? They were only staying here for the week – that’s how long their booking was at the theatre. Settled up for their week’s board after breakfast, and then off they went in a taxi along with their luggage.”

  “Do you have any idea at all where they were going?”

  “They said they were leaving town. That’s all I know.”

  Barton mulled this over: they did not have a car, so if they were leaving Northampton they had probably gone to the station.

  “Where’s the main railway station?”

  “That would be Castle Station, down Black Lion Hill.”

  #

  It took less than ten minutes to drive from the boarding house to Castle Station, which turned out to be thronging with travellers, mainly service personnel in transit. The station was also fairly large, having six platforms. Barton and Bronx started their search by scouring each of the platforms, but there was no sign of Grace, or Miller. They then tried the waiting rooms and the station buffet, but without any luck. Barton realised that the pair might already have boarded a train and left, so he approached a ticket collector standing at a barrier and asked him if he had seen a striking, brown-haired girl accompanied by a tall, thin gent with a lot of luggage.

  “Can’t say I have,” the man replied, shaking his head. “Where are they going to? I could tell you if their train has departed.”

  “I don’t know their destination.”

  “Are you sure they’re travelling from this station?”

  “Why, where else could they be leaving from?”

  “This is the station for London, Birmingham and the west. If they’re heading Peterborough way, they may have left from Bridge Street Station.”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility – how do we get there?”

  “Go down Black Lion Hill and keep heading east until you reach the junction with Bridge Street. Turn right there and just head along Bridge Street until you’re over the river. You’ll shortly come to a level crossing and the station is right next to it.”

  #

  Although Bridge Street Station turned out to be less than a mile away, as a result of taking a wrong turning en route, it was getting on for 12.30 when they arrived there. With only two platforms, it was a much smaller station than the first, but still very busy. The main station building – a mock Jacobean, brick construction – was on the eastbound platform, the westbound one having only a large wooden shelter.

  Bronx and Barton passed through the booking hall and began to walk among the passengers – again, mostly service personnel – waiting on the eastbound side, but they did not encounter Grace or Miller. However, some crates and large items of luggage had been stacked at a point on the platform where the guard’s vans were expected to come to rest and Barton recognised one of the items as the travelling wardrobe he had inspected at the Alhambra.

  “They’re here somewhere,” he announced to Bronx, “this is their trunk.”

  Barton finally spotted them in a corner of the waiting room, sitting with two naval ratings who Miller was entertaining with card tricks. Barton called Bronx over and they entered the room together. As they walked across to the group, they saw that one of the ratings was holding a bottle of rum; he passed it to Miller for a swig and then to his shipmate. Barton noted that the bottle was nearly empty. Grace, looking tired and a little anxious, was watching Miller but glanced up at Bronx and Barton as they approached. Her expression hardened into a look of annoyance.

  “Hello, Grace,” Barton said, trying to affect an affable tone, but she did not respond. “Good to see you again, Roy,” he continued, turning to Miller, who looked up smiling and squinted at Barton’s face in an attempt to place him.

  “I know we’ve met somewhere before. Don’t tell me ... I’ve got it: Bramlington! You’re Grace’s friend.”

  “That’s right, I’m Frank Barton. Remember, we met again after your Camden show.”

  “Ah yes, Camden – not a happy memory, I’m afraid. I was – er – taken ill on stage, so to speak. Had to cancel the rest of the booking. Bit embarrassing.” Miller was slurring his words slightly, and Barton guessed he had had a fair bit to drink already.

  “This is Bronx Moncur, a colleague of mine. We were at your show the other night. The act’s improved a lot. You’re doing some really good stuff.”

  “Kind of you to say so, dear boy. I have to admit, though, that a lot of the credit has to go to Grace here,” Miller said, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her a little squeeze. “She’s full of ideas.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she is,” Barton responded, looking meaningfully at Grace.

  “Come on, Roy,” she said, ignoring the remark and standing up, “we should wait on the platform with the luggage.”

  “There’s no rush, dear girl. There’ll be plenty of time to get on when the train comes. It could be ages yet. The damn thing’s over an hour late already. It was supposed to leave here at 11.30.”

  “Where are you heading for?” Barton asked Grace casually, but she did not answer. She seemed determined to give him the silent treatment.

  “Why, Edina, dear boy,” Miller filled in, “‘Scotia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs!’”

  The rating with the bottle of rum passed it to Miller. “Finish it off, mate, we’ve got another.”

  Miller took it without hesitation. “That’s very good of you!”

  “You’re from that part of the world Bronx, any idea where Edina is?” Barton asked.

  “I think he means Edinburgh.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Miller confirmed, raising the bottle in a toast: “Slange Var! as they say north of the border.” With that, he drained the last mouthful.

  Grace sighed. “I’m going out to wait on the platform, Roy.”

  “I’ll come too,” Barton said. “I’d like to continue the chat we were having yesterday.”

  Grace turned without saying anything and left, followed by Barton. Realising they might want to be alone together, Bronx remained. “So, Mr Miller,” he said, sitting down in her place, “know any more tricks?”

  Grace walked along the platform and sat on a bench near where the luggage was piled up. Barton sat down next to her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were leaving today?”

  “A, because it’s none of your business, and B, because I don’t want you following me around any more,” she replied angrily.

  “I’m actually relieved you’re getting out of Northampton – the further you can get away the better because things are about to hot up here. I went to your boarding house this morning to warn you. Provided you haven’t had any further contact with that Wilkinson woman or her associates since yesterday evening, you should be all right. ”

  “Look, after seeing you, I went with Roy to the Alhambra to give our performance; we came directly back afterwards, and I didn’t leave the boarding house until this morning, when Roy and I left together for the station. If you want, ask Roy to confirm this.”

  “OK, I accept you haven’t contacted them.” Barton looked up and down the platform to make sure no-one was in hearing distance and then continued in a low voice: “You know, I’m sticking my neck out for you here: if you are involved with that gang, I’m going to get into a lot of trouble for not reporting it.” He paused and then, watching her expression closely,
went on: “Are you working for the Germans, Grace?” She did not reply. “If you are, I’m sure you have your reasons, but you have to stop right now.”

  “No, I am not working for the Germans,” she said emphatically, “and I’m offended that you could even think that. Now will you drop the subject and leave me alone?”

  “All right, I won’t go on about it anymore, but I’m not leaving – I want to make sure you get safely on the train.”

  They sat in silence for a while then Barton asked, “How are things back home in Bramlington?”

  “My father’s in better health. He’s moved to a care home and is being well looked after. He’s also getting specialist treatment. Thank you for asking.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” There was another brief pause before Barton continued: “So, you’re going to Edinburgh. Are you performing there?”

  “Yes, we’ve got a booking for one week at the Palladium. After that, we’re on for a week at the Glasgow Empire.”

  “I see, the grand tour of Scotland. Tell me, why is it that Miller always has to have the title ‘Professor’ in his stage name?”

  Grace smiled slightly. It was the first time he had seen her smile cordially in his company since that day in Bramlington when they had parted.

  “When he was starting out, one of his first bookings was on a pier show. He was there for a summer season. There’s a rope trick called the ‘Professor’s Nightmare’ which he had in his act; he made a complete mess of it during one of his performances and for weeks afterwards the other performers kept ribbing him about it and calling him ‘the Professor’. The name kind of stuck, so he incorporated it into his act.”

  After a brief pause, she continued: “Although Roy doesn’t have any formal qualifications, he’s a clever fellow. He reads a lot. You know, he used to devise and make a lot of his tricks himself.”

  “Why did he stop – was it the drink?”