The Golf, Cheese and Chess Society

by Jason Blacker

“Did you know Group Captain Dowd back then, Inspector?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  DS Lavatish looked down at the dead man. What he was certain of, and what he hoped his Inspector was certain of, was that this Group Captain Dowd must have known his killer.

  “Is that something we can agree on, Inspector?” asked Lavatish, not realizing that he had been thinking and not orating his thoughts. Pearce passed a puzzled looked over to Lavatish.

  “Agree on what, that I didn’t know him from the RFC?”

  “Uh, no, sorry, Inspector. I mistook what I thought for what I had spoken.”

  “And what had you thought?”

  “Surely we would agree, Inspector, that Group Captain Dowd must have known his killer.”

  Pearce nodded his head.

  “That I think we can agree on,” he said, patting Lavatish on the shoulder and turning around to exit the room.

  “I think our work here is done, Sergeant,” said Pearce. “Time to find out what might have gotten this young man murdered.”

  “Young man, sir?”

  “Oi, careful where you tread, Sergeant, I’m just a few years younger than that young, murdered man.”

  Lavatish laughed.

  “Yes, sir, a young man he was, indeed.”

  As they left the flat, they passed the coroner and his colleagues coming to collect the body.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Chief and the Thief

  FROM his office on the fifth floor, Detective Inspector Devlin Pearce had a wonderful view over the River Thames. Already there were plenty of little boats and dinghies floating upon its slate-gray surface, rippled and tickled by the wind. It wasn’t really Pearce’s office, though he hoped it would become his one day. It was really the Chief Inspector’s office. Chief Inspector Clarence “Larry” Deane.

  Larry Deane was a sinewy, tall man with a gaunt face and thin white hair that he combed back. He had a short white mustache that unless you knew him looked like it might be dried milk or mould on his upper lip. He was in his early sixties and ready to retire any moment. Pearce was hoping to get the job. He’d been Detective Inspector for seven years now, and he’d done well with all the cases he’d been given. In fact, Pearce was, for all intents and purposes running most of the murder cases now.

  Larry Deane had earned his nickname from the shortening of his first name. Clarence, had become Clary, which over time had simply become Larry.

  “What did you find, Pearce?” asked Deane, as Pearce sat in front of the desk looking out over the Thames. The sun was blue and the cotton-ball clouds promised a fun and carefree spring day. But only for those lucky enough to be out on the river enjoying the day’s bounty.

  It had comforted Pearce since the war started, how normal people’s lives became, even in the small spaces between air raids. Looking out now, if you discarded the rubble and broken buildings, life seemed like it was just carrying on about its business.

  “Group Captain Stanley Dowd was found with a single gunshot to his chest. The flat didn’t look disturbed. In fact, it appeared as if he might have entertained his killer before he was shot. There were two cups of coffee on the kitchen table.”

  Deane lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  “Another thing that was quite odd was the fifty pounds in notes that we found next to him that hadn’t been disturbed.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Not really. A resident of the building said she saw a man of average height all in black in the corridor and then again outside. He hailed a cab and he had a limp. She said he sounded foreign, perhaps German. Didn’t get a good look at his face though.”

  “Nothing was taken?”

  “Didn’t look like it, but we can’t be absolutely certain. The flat certainly wasn’t turned upside down. Other than the dead man on the bed, you wouldn’t know anyone had been in there other than the resident.”

  “What do we know about this Group Captain.”

  “Not much yet. I’d put him in his late forties to early fifties. He works out of RAF Biggin Hill Station. I’m going to ring them up and see what they can tell me about him.”

  “Quite odd that a Group Captain is living in The Muse’s Mark on his salary, and that fifty pounds is laying next to him. Something’s afoot, Pearce.”

  “This is the conundrum, sir,” said Pearce. “I’ve been thinking about it. That witness who said she saw a foreign man leaving The Muse’s Mark. She said he might have been German. If he was German, perhaps he’s a spy working for us.”

  Pearce paused for a moment.

  “But there are things in that scenario that don’t add up. For instance, hasn’t MI5 suggested that they’ve smoked out all German spies and have turned them to act on our behalf?”

  Deane nodded.

  “This is what I have been told from Box 500, yes,” he said.

  “Well then, if that’s the case, why would this turned German spy kill one of our own men? And why leave the money? And why so much money? I know that part of the promise we’ve made to these double agents is an income and the ability to bring their families over after the war, but surely we’re not giving them fifty pounds monthly?”

  Deane smoked his cigarette and blew smoke out the side of his mouth.

  “I would be surprised if they’re being paid anywhere near that much.”

  “And if Group Captain Dowd was working on behalf of MI5, well, that still doesn’t explain how he’s living at The Muse’s Mark on a government salary.”

  “It seems like you’ve given this some thought, Pearce. Those are good questions, and I’d suggest you start with RAF Biggin Hill. Perhaps those questions will be answered.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, Chief Inspector,” said Pearce, standing up.

  “Keep me informed.”

  Pearce left Deane’s office and Deane stood up and looked out his window. He watched the traffic down on the street for a while and the boats floating upon the River Thames. He would see the war through, so long as it didn’t last indefinitely. Then he’d retire, and his recommendation for his replacement would be DI Devlin Pearce.

  Pearce sat down at his desk. Lavatish was next to him doing paperwork. Pearce picked up the phone and asked the operator for RAF Biggin Hill. Pearce waited for some time before the other end of the line was picked up.

  “This is RAF Biggin Hill,” said a female voice on the other end.

  “Detective Inspector Devlin Pearce with Scotland Yard. I need to speak with the Commanding Officer there.”

  “The Station Commander will be Group Captain Kenneth Stone, Inspector. Please hold while I get him.”

  Pearce frowned. If Dowd was a Group Captain, then why was he not the CO, or SC? Something was odd right from the start. Pearce didn’t have to wait long before the telephone was answered.

  “Group Captain Kenneth Stone,” said a deep, posh-sounding voice.

  “Group Captain, this is Detective Inspector Pearce with Scotland Yard.”

  “Yes, Inspector, what can I help you with?”

  “I understand that a Group Captain Stanley Dowd is assigned to RAF Biggin Hill.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And yet you are the Group Captain in command.”

  “That is also correct.”

  “Is it usual to have two Commanding Officers at an RAF Station?”

  “You mean Station Commanders, Inspector, and no, it is not usual. Group Captain Dowd is registered here but he is on another assignment.”

  “And what is that assignment?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you without verifying your clearance, Inspector,” said Stone.

  “For heaven’s sake, Kenneth, the man was found murdered this morning and I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, with that in mind, the best I can offer you is to call up Bletchley Park and speak with Gate Keeper Walter Brimley. I’m afraid I can’t divulge anything further than that. I hope you understand.”

 
“I understand, Kenneth. And I might be coming to see you about him if BP isn’t as helpful as I’d like.”

  “Good day, Inspector,” said Group Captain Stone, hanging up on him.

  “Pompous bastard,” said Pearce, putting the phone down on the receiver.

  “Didn’t go well, did it, Inspector?”

  “Not as well as I would have liked, but I did get a bit of a morsel. The Commanding Officer, forgive me,” said Pearce, sarcastically. “The Station Commander at RAF Biggin Hill is Group Captain Kenneth Stone, the very same pompous bastard I referred to earlier.”

  “And Dowd is a Group Captain too.”

  “Exactly, and since when does an RAF Station have two Group Captains as Station Commanders.”

  “Not very often, I should think,” said Lavatish.

  “That’s right. Stone said I should call up Bletchley Park and speak with Gate Keeper Walter Brimley.”

  “MI5?”

  “Yes, so even though our Group Captain Dowd is registered to RAF Biggin Hill, it would seem he was on assignment to BP, or at least on loan to MI5. So it would seem.”

  “That’s a good bit of news,” said Lavatish.

  “It’s something,” said Pearce, picking up the receiver and asking the operator for Walter Brimley at Bletchley Park. After a short while a curt and somewhat resigned voice answered the other end.

  “Walter Brimley.”

  “Detective Inspector Devlin Pearce with Scotland Yard.”

  “This is not a good time, Inspector,” said Brimley. “Can you call back in a few days?”

  “No, Walt, I can’t. I’d like to speak to you about Group Captain Stanley Dowd.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “That’s not what Group Captain Kenneth Stone at RAF Biggin Hill told me.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was found murdered this morning in his London flat.”

  “Bugger,” said Brimley, under his breath.

  “I see,” said Pearce. “So you did know him?”

  “We can’t have this conversation over the phone. Come up to BP this afternoon.”

  “Very well.”

  “Good day, Inspector,” said Brimley, hanging up the phone.

  Pearce placed the telephone back on the receiver. He looked over at Lavatish and smiled.

  “We’re going up to Bletchley Park this afternoon. Are you secret cleared?”

  Lavatish nodded.

  “It’s required now to pass your detective’s exam.”

  “Good,” said Pearce. “We leave at eleven.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cheese and Chess

  FRANCES, Declan and Alfred all climbed into the Rolls Royce Wraith. Alfred was up front driving with Frances and her son in the back. The trip up to Bletchley Park shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half or so, depending on traffic and Alfred’s foot. He wasn’t a fast driver, but he did put his foot down when he felt it was safe.

  The drive was scenic, especially since the proposed M1 had been postponed because of the war. Farms and fields almost butted up right against the shoulder of the road. Sheep and cattle could be seen out nibbling on the new spring grass. It was a warm, sunny day and the trip up was quiet.

  “You think the cryptic message holds the key, Mother?” asked Declan.

  “I think it holds something,” said Frances. “It is addressed to me and the poor woman, for some reason, felt that I could help.”

  “I don’t understand why she left you one written message in plain English and another cryptic message? If someone was after her why not just send both messages quickly, plain as day?”

  “Perhaps she was scared of being caught before she got the message to me. There might be something in the cryptic message that she didn’t want the killer to know. It might all be explained when we get there.”

  “We are almost here, my Lady,” said Alfred as he turned the corner and the Mansion could be seen over the looming gate up ahead. They drove up slowly. There wasn’t much activity outside of Bletchley Park. Very few cars were parked nearby, and as they drove up to the entrance, they caught the guard in his sentry box leaning back with his feet up reading a magazine. He quickly came to attention and walked out towards them. He stood by Alfred’s window.

  “Good Afternoon, sir,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  He was a young man in his early twenties. Fresh-faced and likely not sure about all the fuss going on within Bletchley Park.

  “Lord Marmalade, and his mother Lady Marmalade would like to see the Commanding Officer.”

  “We don’t allow visitors, I’m afraid. You’ll have to call up and make an appointment.”

  Frances had called up and spoken with Clyde Albutt, the head of MI6 at Bletchley Park. He had told her to have the guard call up for Gate Keeper Walter Brimley when she arrived.

  Declan rolled down his window. He could see the young man was a little out of his league. He was only a corporal with his two chevrons on his sleeve.

  “Excuse me, Corporal,” said Declan. The young man walked over to the rear window. Declan showed his navy identification. He had wanted to retire, but the war had ensured that he stay on. He served his country proudly, and even though his service with the navy was at this stage more a courtesy, he still took the twice weekly meetings seriously. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to call up Walter Brimley. He is expecting us.”

  Seeing that he was addressing an Admiral of the Navy, the corporal decided to do what he had been told. Declan had been promoted to the rank of admiral when he was only thirty-four. The youngest Admiral in the history of the Royal Navy.

  “Certainly, Admiral,” he said and walked back into his box.

  “I thought you had retired, Declan?” asked Frances.

  “I had planned on it, Mother, but then the war happened and they asked me to stay on. Of course I wouldn’t dream of it under these circumstances. It doesn’t take up too much of my time, and I like to think that my help is useful.”

  “Then you’d tell your mother how the war’s going, wouldn’t you?”

  “Surprisingly well, Mother, surprisingly well. I might not have been able to say that a year ago, but today I can. I think we’ve turned the corner.”

  The young corporal returned and handed Delcan his credentials.

  “Walter Brimley will see you, Admiral, at Hut 10. Head up the main road, past the Mansion and just past your first right you’ll see Hut 8. Hut 10 is two huts up from there. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Corporal,” said Declan.

  The corporal went to open the barrier and Alfred drove slowly on into Bletchley Park, surprised that he had not been asked to stay behind. It didn’t take long to find Hut 8. It was a red brick building, much like the others with a tin roof. Besides the door was a plaque that read “Hut 8”. Black letters on a white background. Alfred drove up a little further and found Hut 10 just as the corporal had promised. Alfred parked the car and they all got out.

  Lady Marmalade led them to the entrance. She knocked on the door and then walked in. This hut, like most of the others they’d seen on the drive up, was long and narrow. It was filled inside with desks and chalkboards, and a cork board. There was an office at the back. A younger man in army clothes with the rank of captain walked up to them.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m Admiral Declan Branham, and this is my mother Lady Marmalade. This is Alfred Donahue, our butler. We’re here to see Walter Brimley.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Are you all secret cleared?”

  Declan looked at Alfred.

  “I’m afraid not, my Lord,” he said.

  “Then you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not even allowed to be in here,” said the army captain.

  Alfred nodded.

  “I’ll be by the car, my Lord.”

  “Thank you, Alfred,” said Frances.

  “And you are?” asked Declan.r />
  “I’m Captain Albert McBurney. In charge of the Military Police here at the Park.”

  “And where can we find Walter Brimley, Captain?” asked Declan.

  “Right over there,” said McBurney, pointing towards the back of the building where the office was. Brimley was pacing up and down the front of his desk, oblivious to anyone else. “Let me introduce you, Admiral.”

  McBurney led them towards the back of the hut past the desks where a couple of army chaps sat and where there was a female civilian amongst them. McBurney knocked on the door and Brimley stopped his pacing. He looked over at them and gestured for them to come inside. McBurney led them in.

  “Sir, this is Admiral Declan Branham and his mother Lady Marmalade.”

  Brimley faced them and shook hands.

  “Admiral, my Lady,” he said.

  “Please call me Frances.”

  Brimley nodded and smiled ever so thinly. He was grateful for that. He wasn’t one for pomp and ceremony. Especially under these conditions. He gestured at the two wooden chairs in front of his desk as he walked round to the other side. The furnishings were sparse and minimal. Brimley waited on his side of the desk until Frances had taken a seat, and then he sat down.

  “You might as well stay, Captain,” he said, as McBurney looked to be turning around to leave. There were no extra chairs so McBurney stood towards the back on Declan’s right shoulder.

  Brimley wasn’t sure what this meeting was supposed to be about. Albutt, like the infant he was, hadn’t given him any details other than to say that Lord and Lady Marmalade were up to see him. The only reason he’d agreed to see them was because Albutt reminded him that Lord Marmalade was also an Admiral of the Navy and as such, he could use all the friends he could make in light of this Operation Scrambled Eggs going tits up. The person he was really looking forward to seeing was Detective Inspector Devlin Pearce. He wanted to know what had happened to his man Dowd.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” said Brimley, “but I’d sooner get right down to brass tacks. I’ve got quite the busy day ahead of me, I’m meeting an inspector from Scotland Yard any minute now, so I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time.”