A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yes. Mr Brian Trench. We found his name in your little book. The rest we put together after interviewing Miss Copeland.’ Liddell took out his pipe and began to rub the bowl with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. ‘Fortunately the evidence of your blunder has been destroyed; at least we don’t have that to worry about. Nor do you, except for the occasional pang of conscience I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The public house – the Stump I believe it was called?’

  ‘The Magpie and Stump.’

  ‘It no longer exists. Neither does Mr Trench nor anyone else who was there at the time. The Triumph Motor Cycle Works was hit by several large, high-explosive bombs as well as a score of incendiaries. From what I understand the site is still too hot to investigate.’

  ‘He was married. His wife will want to know what happened to her husband.’

  ‘Dead as well,’ Liddell answered briefly. ‘We checked on that. They lived in a house on Cherry Street. She went to her Anderson Shelter when the alert came. The house was less than fifty yards away from the old gasworks on Abbot’s Lane. Went up like a Roman candle. The entire street was demolished.’ Liddell put the pipe back into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Saves us a bit of trouble, actually.’

  ‘Queer Jack?’ asked Black after a moment.

  ‘For the time being we’re assuming that he perished in the raid. A nameless victim.’ Liddell paused. ‘There were enough of them,’ he added dryly.

  ‘You don’t really believe that. He was well away from things when the alert came,’ said Black, remembering. ‘He’d planned for the raid. I’m sure he survived.’

  ‘What you’re sure of is irrelevant, Inspector. As far as any official record is concerned, the man you were after is dead.’

  ‘And when he kills again?’

  ‘So far that hasn’t happened.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  Morris Black stared unbelievingly at the intelligence officer. ‘My God, it’s all being swept under the carpet.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘And I’m to be swept under the carpet along with everything else?’

  ‘Yes. Your secondment to my department has been terminated. You are, however, still bound by the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Swift?’

  ‘He has been assigned to other duties for the time being. A transfer to sunnier climes. Palestine, as I recall.’

  Black let out a long breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his hands and the ache in his neck. It was madness and it made no sense. Liddell knew that Queer Jack represented a potentially disastrous security leak yet he was collapsing the investigation. Something had frightened him off. ‘And the other man? The one you call The Doctor?’

  ‘We are pursuing other lines of inquiry,’ Liddell answered stiffly. He stood up, patted his pockets and glanced down at Black.

  ‘So that’s the end of it?’

  The MI5 officer nodded. ‘As far as you’re concerned, yes. You will remain here for the next few weeks until you’re quite recovered from your injuries. After that there will be another debriefing and that will be that.’

  ‘I go back to the Yard a sadder and wiser man,’ said Black, his tone bitter.

  Liddell raised an eyebrow. ‘I think not, Inspector.’

  ‘What precisely is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that as a result of your injuries you will no longer be deemed fit to act as a police officer. You will be offered the opportunity to retire on a full disability pension.’

  Black stared, unbelieving. Liddell was dismantling his world, brick by brick. ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘You will be asked to undergo a physical examination, which you will fail. You will then be asked to resign your commission in the Metropolitan Police Force.’

  Black knew the answer but asked the question anyway. ‘And if I don’t resign?’

  There was a hint of sadness in Liddell’s voice. ‘Then you will be fired, Morris. There is also the possibility that you could be tried under the Treachery Act for divulging secret information to an agent of a foreign power.’

  ‘You can’t mean Katherine.’

  ‘That’s exactly who I mean.’

  ‘She’s a reporter, Liddell, not a spy,’ Black lied.

  Liddell smiled and shook his head. ‘I may be insane, Morris, but I’m not naive. Miss Copeland told me who her recent employers had been. She also told me that she discussed the matter with you the night before Coventry.’

  ‘She was drunk. I didn’t think she was telling me the truth.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Liddell smiled.

  ‘I want to see her.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You’re not to be allowed any visitors.’

  ‘A telephone then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m a prisoner here?’

  Liddell said nothing; instead he reached out and laid a hand on Black’s shoulder for a moment. ‘I’ll see you again in a few weeks, Inspector. We’ll have another chat then.’ He smiled, squeezed Black’s shoulder then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Listening, Morris Black was quite sure he heard the sound of a lock being turned.

  * * *

  Katherine Copeland climbed out of her cab, paid the driver then checked the address on the small card she’d been sent by Larry Bingham: 23 Tedworth Square on the edge of Pimlico, not far from the Embankment and the Thames. She clenched the collar of her coat tightly around her neck against the cold and went up the short flight of steps to the front door, still limping slightly. The burns she’d sustained in Coventry had been superficial but somewhere along the way she’d managed to severely tear the Achilles tendon of her left foot. A small enough price to pay, all things considered.

  Pressing the small buzzer, she waited on the top step, wondering why Bingham had asked her to meet him in such an out-of-the-way spot or anywhere at all for that matter, especially in broad daylight. After a moment the door was opened by a young, dark-haired woman, who smiled and ushered her inside. Katherine found herself in a small, tile-floored foyer. Directly in front of her was a long flight of stairs with an ornate, heavily varnished banister.

  ‘They’re waiting for you in the projection room,’ said the woman. She took Katherine’s coat, hung it up on a rather plain-looking stand and led the way up the stairs. Reaching the landing, the woman went down a short, dim hallway, opened a door and stood aside. Katherine stepped into the room and the woman closed the door behind her.

  The room was large and high ceilinged, heavy blackout curtains drawn over the tall bay window looking out over the square. In front of the curtains a pull-down screen on a tripod had been set up. The only furniture was a small table holding a cinema projector and half a dozen wooden folding chairs. The only light came from a bare-bulb fixture in the ceiling.

  ‘Hello, Kat.’ Lawrence Bingham unfurled himself from one of the chairs and crossed the room to her. ‘Good to see you again. Wounds healing all right?’ His voice was solicitous.

  ‘Well enough,’ she said. Lying bastard, she thought.

  Someone else had been seated with Bingham and he was now standing, waiting to be introduced. He was short with dark, thinning hair and a hawk nose that belonged to an entirely different face. He was wearing a British Army uniform without any sort of insignia.

  Bingham took Katherine by the elbow and brought her across the room. The man in the Army uniform extended a hand and Katherine took it. The man’s fingers gripped hers loosely and then withdrew. It was like shaking hands with a dead fish and Katherine found herself recoiling slightly.

  ‘Maxwell Knight,’ he said. The voice was soft and well educated. ‘I’m very glad you could attend at such short notice.’ He gestured to one of the folding chairs and Katherine seated herself, throwing Bingham a fast, quizzical look.

  ‘Major Knight is a member of the British security service,’ said Bingham, still standing
.

  ‘MI5,’ said Katherine.

  Knight smiled. ‘If you wish.’ There was as much humour in his expression as a waiting vulture. What in God’s name was Larry Bingham doing with a man like this? For that matter, what was she doing here?

  ‘Major Knight was the man who uncovered the Tyler Kent affair,’ said Bingham. Katherine nodded. Now she was beginning to understand. Larry had been the U.S. diplomatic representative when the embassy clerk was arrested. It still didn’t explain what the two men were doing together now though, or the reason for her own presence.

  ‘Since you’re so intimately involved with our present situation, I thought you should be here today,’ said Knight, his voice smooth. ‘Mr Bingham concurred.’

  ‘What situation would that be?’ asked Katherine warily. This was Larry’s game and now the devious bastard was drawing her into it. For some reason she was a useful commodity again.

  ‘The situation regarding Detective Inspector Black and your mutual adventure in Coventry,’ Knight answered.

  ‘I don’t think I’m really in a position to say anything about that.’ Katherine gave Bingham another look but he just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘From what I’ve been given to understand, there’s a chance I might still be arrested as a spy. Or tried for treason.’

  ‘I rather doubt that,’ said Knight, his voice dry.

  ‘He’s in on the whole thing, Kat,’ said Bingham. ‘All of it.’

  ‘I think someone should explain just what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Of course.’ Knight threaded his way through the double row of folding chairs, went to the screen and turned, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Let me begin by saying that I am aware of Mr Bingham’s function at your embassy.’ Knight smiled bleakly. ‘The corollary to this, of course, is that I am also aware of your relationship with Mr Bingham.’

  ‘I don’t have a relationship with Larry,’ said Katherine, not seeing at all. All she knew for sure was that Bingham was playing fast and loose with security.

  ‘Consider yourself reinstated, Kat, at least for the time being.’

  Knight spoke again. ‘My department is also aware of your… friendship with Morris Black.’

  Katherine turned to Bingham, shocked at the disclosure. ‘Larry, what—’

  ‘Let him talk.’

  ‘Your job was to find out why Inspector Black was so interested in a series of murders which have occurred since early September and what connection those murders had with my department. Over the course of the last two and a half months neither you nor Inspector Black was able to discover very much about the so-called Queer Jack murders.’ Knight paused.

  ‘Until ten days ago. At that time, with your help, Inspector Black established a connection between Queer Jack and the British Correspondence Chess Association. Apparently this is how the killer was choosing his victims. More importantly, you were also aware that Queer Jack possessed information about when and where Luftwaffe bombing raids were to occur. This, of course, is the basis of our interest in the murders. The killer did, and perhaps still does, represent a serious leakage of strategically important knowledge. Inspector Black’s primary objective, apart from tracking down the killer, was to ascertain how the murderer was getting this information.’

  ‘This is all history,’ Katherine interrupted. ‘Why don’t you get to the point, Major Knight.’ She could still feel the man’s weak, sexless handshake. There was something almost spooky about his flat, emotionless discourse and she knew intuitively that Knight was a dangerous man.

  ‘History is important, Miss Copeland. I believe it was one of your own philosophers who said that “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”’

  ‘George Santayana.’

  The short man in the anonymous uniform smiled, nodding. ‘Quite so, Miss Copeland. But Mr Santayana also observed that “history is always written wrong, that is why it is always necessary to rewrite it.”’

  ‘We’ve established your knowledge of American philosophy,’ said Katherine. ‘As well as letting me know how good a snoop you are. But you still haven’t made your point and I still don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘Please, Miss Copeland.’ Knight held up one placating hand. ‘We’re on the same side.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mr Bingham was instrumental in our arrest of the spy Tyler Kent. With Kennedy as ambassador, trapping the embassy code clerk might well have been a very sticky situation. Mr Bingham smoothed the way considerably. It is now time for the favour to be returned. Quid pro quo.’

  ‘Not without some benefit to you, I’m sure. Tit for tat.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Knight smiled. ‘One hand does wash the other after all, since we seem to be exchanging homilies.’ He paused again, the smile fading. After a long moment he spoke again. ‘Miss Copeland, what conclusions have you and Mr Bingham reached about Inspector Black’s investigations?’

  Once again she turned to Bingham. Which came first, the tit or the tat, the quid or the quo? The first secretary nodded silently. Katherine took a deep breath then let it out.

  ‘We assume that you have a highly placed agent who is giving you accurate and regular information about Nazi bombing raids. Maybe other things. Somehow Queer Jack has access to the same information, probably here at the receiving end. The fact that you let the Germans firebomb Coventry into ashes proves just how important this agent is. Up until now you’ve been playing it pretty close to the chest. How’s that?’

  Knight nodded. ‘Good enough. Although not entirely accurate. The fact is there is no such “highly placed agent” as you describe. On the other hand our people have managed to break the main codes used by the German General Staff. We have a copy of their Enigma encoding device and a high-speed method of decoding their signals.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Bingham muttered. He stared at Knight, astounded.

  ‘Umm,’ said the intelligence officer. ‘Without Ultra, as we call it, the German Air Force would almost certainly have destroyed the RAF within a few weeks. We were able to husband our meagre resources and put them where they could do the most damage. Had the Luftwaffe succeeded, England would have been invaded long ago. It was a near enough thing as it turned out. Even closer than your ambassador suspects, or President Roosevelt.’

  ‘Why are you telling us about this?’ asked Bingham. ‘And on whose authority?’

  ‘You are being told this because we are now faced with a crisis even more acute than the Nazis.’

  ‘Such as?’ Bingham asked, ignoring Knight’s melodramatic pause.

  ‘Treason. The possibility of civil war.’ The small man’s voice was toneless; he might have been repeating a recipe for meat loaf.

  ‘You’ll have to explain that one,’ said Katherine. ‘And you still haven’t told us whose authority you’re acting on.’ Bingham nodded his agreement; it was obviously worrying him as well. A few moments ago Knight had blandly divulged something that was obviously in the top-secret category. The last thing they needed now was to find themselves embroiled in some sort of internecine battle between government bureaucracies. Roosevelt would have both their heads on a platter if they did anything to upset the delicate balance of neutrality. She glanced at Bingham covertly. If they were smart, they’d cover their ears and get the hell out of here. The first secretary ignored her look and sat beside her, stone-faced, waiting for Knight to answer. He did.

  ‘I am acting under no authority except my own. Frankly there are few people I can trust, even among my own staff. Loyalty to one’s country seems to be getting short shrift of late.’

  ‘So you come to us?’ asked Bingham. Katherine felt her stomach twist. Every instinct was telling her to leave the room before anything more was said. The man was clearly paranoid. She glanced over her shoulder at the projector on the table behind them.

  It suddenly occurred to her that Knight might well have them under surveillance. Wouldn’t that look lovely on News of the World. The first secretary
of the U.S. embassy in London and herself palling around with MI5. What kind of hole had Larry dropped them into?

  ‘We need your help and your cooperation,’ said Knight. ‘Quite frankly, we had no one else to turn to. It is key that the American security authorities understand exactly what is going on.’

  ‘”We”?’ asked Bingham pointedly.

  ‘I’ll get to that.’ Knight went behind them to the projector, flicked it on, then crossed to the door and switched off the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness. A bright, flickering square appeared on the screen in front of them. Knight went back to the projector.

  ‘What are we looking at?’ asked Bingham. The blank square resolved itself into a fuzzy black-and-white image. A large country house, partially surrounded by a stand of trees. Bright sunlight and a sky full of fluffy clouds. The frame jumped and flickered. The image was suddenly much larger, focusing in on a wide, stone terrace flanked by two wings of the house. The film steadied.

  Knight’s voice came to them out of the darkness. ‘This is Priory Close, a country estate in Kent, about twenty-five miles from London. The house is owned by Sir Alexander Walker.’

  ‘The distillery millionaire?’ asked Bingham. Katherine stared at the screen. She drank the man’s whisky; she’d been pissed to the gills on it when she confessed all to Morris that evening in her flat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Friend of Kennedy’s,’ murmured the first secretary. ‘Been doing business for years. Kennedy is the American agent for Hiram Walker.’

  ‘And Sir Alexander is chairman of the board,’ put in Knight.

  ‘When was this film taken?’ asked Katherine.

  ‘In late summer,’ said Knight, ‘before the Blitz began.’ The film jumped again, went out of focus then steadied again.

  On the screen a figure appeared, coming through the French doors of the wing on the left. ‘It’s Joe Kennedy,’ said Bingham, identifying the tall, bald man with his trademark spectacles.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Knight. ‘Apparently Sir Alexander gave your ambassador use of the house for this meeting, although he wasn’t in attendance himself.’