A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘It was dark.’

  ‘The patch?’

  ‘No. The room. The Mandrake. I can’t…’

  ‘Yes, you can, Harry. His Majesty’s prison awaits.’

  ‘There were four letters in the middle, intertwined. RAAF.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Below the letters, in a scroll. Cambridge University Squadron. Some numbers, I can’t remember…’ Upton slumped down on the stool, narrow shoulders rising in defeat, head telescoping down like a turtle. He slipped the spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, hooking them over his ears, fingers trembling, waiting for the axe to fall.

  ‘You still keep rooms in Seven Dials?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stay in them. Try to slip away and I’ll find you no matter what.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did well, Henry.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked down at the photograph, then reached out and tentatively touched the dead mouth with a bony finger.

  ‘Sorry that he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. He was…’ Henry Upton swallowed again. The tears had overflowed, tracking down the cheeks. ‘He was very beautiful.’

  Black slid the picture gently out from beneath Upton’s hand. ‘Yes, he was.’

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, September 12, 1940

  11:30 a.m., British Summer Time

  This, Morris Black knew, was the definition of a nightmare: a dream in which the dreamer sleeps and from which he cannot awaken when the Furies finally come. Now England slept and those terrors were fast approaching.

  His train had been steaming through the fens and valleys of the countryside north of London for the better part of an hour and from his window Black could see the passing landscape, delicately moulded, rich in pastures and corn-bearing fields, hills dark with trees, small ponds and streams gathering into gentle, willow-fringed rivers winding slowly on their way to the distant sea. It was the most English of scenes, pastoral, softly coloured with quiet beauty, utterly at peace.

  Cambridge lay a few miles ahead, and beyond it, Ely and the Wash. Behind him was London, poised on the brink of war, the quick, harsh whispers at the Yard tense with rumours of invasion. They even had a name for it: Sea Lion. The secret memoranda circulated to senior staff referred to invasion preparations from Rotterdam to Boulogne; barges, artillery, munitions, fuel and men were being assembled at twenty Channel ports.

  The presumption was that when it came, the invasion would centre off the eastern coast. To defend against it, barbed wire had been strung for miles along the beaches, mines had been buried in the sand and every road sign and railway halt placard removed or painted over.

  Poles had been planted in farmers’ fields to prevent gliders from landing and plans had been made to put obstructions along every roadway that might be used as an airstrip by the enemy.

  A top-secret resistance battalion had been formed, complete with weapons caches, hidden burrows and radio transmitters buried under rural chicken coops. Ten million pamphlets had been distributed to the general population, giving instructions on what to do when the first paratroops were sighted.

  Even the church bells had been stilled – when they sounded again, it would be to announce the coming of the Nazi invader. Fear crouched like an invisible wraith on the shoulders of each and every man and woman he saw, yet here, in the bright, late-morning sun, there was no sign that these same fields and pastures, hills and valleys, would soon become a bloody killing ground.

  Black wasn’t entirely sure why the various military leaders in Whitehall assumed that the invasion would come via the eastern approaches. To his mind he saw no reason why Hitler wouldn’t follow the examples of Julius Caesar or William the Conqueror, the only warriors to have successfully invaded England in the past. Dover and Hastings were closest to the coast of France and from there the way was clear to the obvious main objective – London. If the city fell, the rest of the nation would follow. It seemed an obvious choice, especially in light of the Luftwaffe’s continuing bombardment along the same path.

  Sitting in his compartment, alone except for the young woman dozing opposite him, Morris Black sighed. Who was he to offer an opinion about an invasion? He was a policeman, not even a soldier, much less a general. His mandate was Queer Jack, not Adolf Hitler and his black minions.

  The bombers, regular as clockwork, had returned the night before, scattering their destructive seed across the city somewhat more democratically than on previous raids. The East End and Docklands had still taken the brunt of it but this time bombs had also exploded in Greenwich, Deptford, Lewisham and Woolwich Arsenal.

  Some damage had been done to St Thomas’s Hospital but overall there was less destruction and fewer casualties than on the nights before. Up until the time he’d left for Cambridge, there were no reports of anything leading him to believe Queer Jack had been at work again. Perhaps, thought Black, he’s disappeared down some black rabbit hole, never to be seen again. He sighed. Not bloody likely.

  The train lurched slightly as they went over a crossing and the bag in his fellow passenger’s lap slid onto the floor, bursting open. The woman awoke with a start. Black knelt down and helped her retrieve the contents of her handbag.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. The accent was flat, the voice pleasant. Black noticed that among the things spilled out was a recent Field’s Postage Stamp Catalogue from their shop on Dover Street.

  ‘You’re a collector?’ he asked, handing over the small, dark green brochure.

  ‘Stamps?’ She smiled. ‘No. My uncle asked me to bring it up to him.’

  ‘You’re American.’ The woman nodded. For the first time Black noticed that she was extremely attractive. Late twenties or early thirties, her hair cut unfashionably long, dark blonde with lighter streaks as though she’d spent some time in the sun. She was wearing a man’s belted trench coat over a simple dark blue skirt and matching sweater. He felt something close to panic clutching at the base of his throat. He was sitting with an attractive woman and he felt like a stumbling schoolboy. Worse, he felt guilty that he was enjoying the sensation.

  ‘You’re a stamp collector?’ she asked as she filled her handbag again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s not what you do.’

  ‘Do?’ He smiled. ‘No. I’m a policeman actually.’

  ‘I’m a warco.’ She smiled back. ‘Katherine Copeland.’ She held out a hand and Black shook it. Her skin was smooth and the grip surprisingly strong. The panic surged again at the touch of her hand. This was how it had been with Fay so long ago and it was something he thought he’d never feel again. Didn’t want to feel again.

  ‘Morris Black,’ he said, clearing his throat nervously. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what a warco is.’

  ‘War correspondent.’ She flushed lightly. ‘I tell a lie. Actually I spend most of my time writing about the “woman’s angle.” Twenty exciting ways to cook potatoes, that kind of thing. Washington Times Herald. ‘

  ‘It sounds very interesting,’ Black answered politely. It never ceased to amaze him how Americans could give you their entire life story within two minutes of first meeting.

  ‘Not half as interesting as being a bobby.’

  Black shrugged. He didn’t bother telling her that policemen in London hadn’t been called bobbies for the better part of a hundred years.

  ‘Your uncle lives in Cambridge?’

  ‘For the last year. He’s a visiting lecturer. American history. Caius College.’

  ‘I believe it’s pronounced “Keys”,’ Black said, correcting her gently. She’d be a marked woman if she went around Cambridge saying ‘Ky-us.’

  ‘Is that right?’ she said brightly. ‘Well, I guess you learn something new every day.’ She dug into her bag and pulled out a dark blue box of DuMauriers. ‘You mind?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Black reached into the pocket of his jacket for his lighter but she’d al
ready used her own by the time he got his out. He lit a cigarette for himself and glanced out the window.

  ‘You think the Germans are going to invade?’ said the young woman.

  Black turned to look at her again, surprised. Had she been reading his mind? ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’ As though his hopes meant anything, or his fears.

  ‘Me too,’ she said and smiled.

  * * *

  Black arrived in Cambridge a quarter of an hour later, said goodbye to the woman he’d shared his compartment with and took a cab to the Blue Boar Hotel. In the interests of discretion he’d agreed to meet Hawkins there rather than at the college itself. Rupert Hawkins was a Trinity don but he was also the acting head of the University Squadron and in charge of its flight-training programme.

  The drive from the station was brief. There was almost no traffic and the streets were empty; Michaelmas term wouldn’t begin for another two weeks and the war had provided its own form of summer holiday. The nightmare and the dream of peace persisted here; reading medieval history or studying ancient languages, even contemplating the scholar’s life, seemed utter madness in the face of what lay so near at hand.

  The Blue Boar was a small, very old hotel almost directly across the cobbled street from the Kings Gate of Trinity College. Hawkins was waiting for him in the dark, oak-panelled bar, a small sherry on the table in front of him.

  The Cambridge don was in his mid-thirties, slightly thick around the middle, sandy hair thinning at the temples. He had the berry cheeks of a drinker and a pipe was clamped between his teeth under the canopy of a bushy, RAF-style moustache, tips curled and heavily waxed.

  Underneath his dark gown he wore the light-coloured blazer that marked him as a one-time Cambridge Blue. Cricket from the looks of him, Black thought, or maybe rowing. Black often silently chided himself for jumping to conclusions about people based on first impressions but half a lifetime spent as a policeman had taken its toll. Rupert Hawkins was every inch a pompous ass and probably worse.

  Black handed his warrant card to the man and sat down across from him without waiting for an invitation. A waiter appeared and Black ordered coffee. Hawkins handed back the warrant, then took a minimal sip of his sherry. The cheeks told a different story; without an audience the drink would have vanished in a single swallow followed by a two-fingered wave to the barman for another. Black’s coffee appeared. He ignored it for the moment.

  ‘Detective Inspector Morris Black.’ Hawkins made the name sound like a carpet stain.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When you telephoned me yesterday, you intimated that you were seeking identification of someone in relation to a… case?’

  ‘Correct, Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Doctor Hawkins.’

  ‘You have reason to believe it might have been one of my boys?’

  ‘There is evidence to suggest that the person in question was a member of the Cambridge University Flying Squadron. Yes.’

  ‘What sort of evidence?’ Black saw a momentary flash of apprehension cross Hawkins’s face. Perhaps it wasn’t the first time one of ‘his boys’ had jumped the rails.

  ‘The person in question was wearing a Cambridge University Flying Squadron uniform.’

  ‘Ah.’ Another sip of sherry. A bigger one this time. Black took the mortuary photograph from his pocket and placed it beside Hawkins’s sherry glass. He picked it up and glanced at it without curiosity for a moment, then frowned. ‘Good Lord, young Talbot.’

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘Certainly. David Talbot. Among other things I’m one of his tutors.’ The frown deepened. ‘Perhaps you’d better explain what this is all about, Inspector.’

  ‘He’s been murdered.’

  Hawkins blanched. He kept his eyes on the photograph, picked up his sherry and drained it away. ‘I thought perhaps…’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Well, boys will be boys after all. Pranks are played. I thought perhaps a member of the squadron might have been involved in some… escapade.’

  ‘No escapade, Dr Hawkins.’ Black saw no reason to be genteel. ‘He was found naked with his spinal cord severed in the kitchen of a cheap flat in Spitalfields.’

  Hawkins’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Black answered dryly. ‘Which is why I’m here. I’d like to know anything you can tell me about David Talbot.’

  ‘He was such a quiet boy,’ Hawkins mumbled, still looking at the photograph. ‘I can’t believe this.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Black paused. ‘He was a flier?’

  ‘Yes. A damned good one.’

  ‘What about his age, background, interests, that sort of thing? Who were his friends?’

  ‘He was nineteen. Canadian. His family has something to do with the railways I think.’

  ‘A good student?’

  ‘Exceptional, especially considering the deficiencies of his previous education. Early days of course but he seemed intent on working in the aeronautical engineering field after the war.’

  ‘Far-sighted of him, since the war hasn’t really begun, at least not for people like him.’

  ‘Wars end, Inspector. Life goes on, you know.’

  ‘Not for him.’ Black paused again, taking a moment to light a cigarette. ‘Hobbies?’

  ‘Flying of course. Reading, games, that sort of thing. Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘None that stands out.’

  ‘No one close? A girl perhaps?’ Black cast that line into the stream, wondering what it would reel in.

  Hawkins shrugged. ‘Between his studies and the squadron he didn’t have much time for a social life.’ The answer was cool and formal. The bait hadn’t been taken; if there had been anything untoward in Hawkins’s relationship with Talbot, the tutor wasn’t about to reveal it openly.

  ‘Time enough to go down to London.’

  ‘Term hasn’t begun yet… or perhaps you’re not aware of the university calendar.’ Another condescending note; after all, an uneducated policeman couldn’t be expected to know the vagaries of a scholar’s schedule.

  ‘Where did he live? Rooms at the college or lodgings?’

  ‘He has a set at the college.’

  ‘I’d like to see it if that’s convenient.’

  ‘It’s convenient enough. But I’m not sure that it’s wise.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Cambridge is a small town, Inspector. Very much a closed shop as the saying goes. There’s already a great deal of concern about the progress of the war; a policeman treading about is hardly the thing to lift morale. Not to mention the squadron.’ Hawkins gave Black a small, condescending smile. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I know that a young man has been murdered, Dr Hawkins. An examination of his rooms is in order, questions of morale and your squadron’s honour aside. And I can assure you that I won’t be “treading about”.’

  Lighting his pipe, Hawkins sat back in his chair and stared coolly at Black for a moment, squinting at him through a thickening haze of smoke.

  ‘You’re a Jew, aren’t you?’

  Black stared at the man seated across from him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, you’re a Jew, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t see how my religion has any relevance to this discussion.’

  ‘Oh, but it does.’ Hawkins waved a hand through the cloud of smoke drifting between them. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Inspector; I have a great deal of respect for your people – Disraeli, for instance, was a Jew – but historically you are a race without roots. Cambridge is a university of tradition and continuity, something I suppose you can’t really be expected to understand. You find it a simple thing to put morale and honour aside; I’m afraid I cannot do the same.’

  It was one of the most absurd speeches Black had ever heard and for a moment he was struck dumb by the placid assurance of
Hawkins’s offensive attitudes. He was the worst sort of bigot – the kind who cloaked his hatred in false logic and pat generalities. For Hawkins, Judaism was akin to being born with a withered leg or a port-wine birthmark – it was a handicap to be overcome, or at the very least accepted philosophically. He wondered how the arrogant little shit would react if he knew about the Gestapo list intercepted by Special Branch a few months ago. The 350-page document contained the names and addresses of those who were to be arrested, interrogated and interned following the invasion – all Cambridge and Oxford faculty were included. Swallowing his anger, Black reached out, took the photograph away from Hawkins and stood. He’d have the officious little bugger served up on toast.

  ‘Presumably the head porter will be able to direct me to Talbot’s rooms?’

  Hawkins stared up at him, colour rising to his already pink cheeks. If Trinity College was anything like the Yard, the porter would also be the surest way to spread tales about the investigation from one end of Cambridge to the other. Hawkins looked away from Black. He knew his arrogant little bluff had been called.

  ‘There’s no need to bring Maskell into this,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll take you.’ They left the hotel and stepped out into the warmth of the early-afternoon sun.

  While the invasion barges assembled in Calais, the late-blooming cherry trees were blossoming on Trinity Street, showers of pale pink petals cascading down onto the cobbles in the face of each trembling gust of wind, filling the air with their gentle scent. Black felt a brief tug of sadness, as though he were witness to the exact moment of summer’s passing. Everything now would be autumn, cool and dying, and nothing lay ahead but bitter winter.

  Talbot’s rooms were on the second floor of the college’s south wing, overlooking narrow Trinity Lane and the stone walls and angled chimney pots of Gonville and Caius College a few yards away. At the foot of the stairs leading up to Talbot’s lodgings, they met Mercy Reynolds, the thinfaced ‘bedder’ in charge of housekeeping for the second floor. She was wearing a long apron, stockings rolled down over thick-heeled shoes and a shapeless, dark green Tyrolean hat pinned to a tightly curled cap of iron grey hair. She had a coal scuttle in one hand and a dustpan in the other.