A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  Horrified, Black stared at the grotesque object hanging above his head. The bomb was about three feet in diameter, a third of it wedged firmly in the outer skin of the dome. Dud? Time fuse? Some sort of trembler booby-trap? At a guess it was a five-hundred pounder. More than enough to blow him to kingdom come and set the dome alight without Queer Jack’s help.

  He looked away. It didn’t matter now. He stood and without hesitation simply walked the last few feet up the stone rib, reached the ladder and began to climb. A few seconds later he reached the base of the lantern observation platform and stepped out onto the Golden Gallery, 312 feet above the ground. London lay beneath him, a seething cauldron of boiling flame and whirling smoke.

  The world had been set on fire. From where he stood, Black could see the entire length and breadth of The City from the Thames and Fleet Street to the south and west to Liverpool Street and the Tower, north and east. It was all alight, blocks of it consumed by fires that grew larger even as he watched.

  Below him a hundred buildings were burning so hotly that he had to look away. Cinders trailing glowing tails of sparks spun past like bright swarms of locusts and walls of smoke rose everywhere – yellow, red and furious pink. More buildings crumbled, blasted instantly into charred piles of rubble by the endlessly falling bombs, the noise blasting at his eardrums like something alive, the moaning air so hot he could feel it burn his skin. Above Black, so close it seemed as though he could reach out and touch them, the bombers were still coming – dark, broad-winged shapes in silhouette, bellies glowing with all the colours of hell as they cut through the erupting clouds. He had climbed to Armageddon.

  Ten feet away, Queer Jack looked out over the railing at the hellish vision that had been his own for so long, locked safe and waiting in his tortured mind. Realising that he was no longer alone, he turned to meet his pursuer, the two-foot-long canister of thermite and magnesium held tightly against his chest. Black stepped forward, raised the revolver then hesitated as he saw the position of the man’s left hand. Like claws, two fingers were hooked through a wire loop threaded into the top of the firebomb.

  Black shouted over the roar of the raging fires all around them. ‘It’s over. Give it up.’

  ‘It’s never over.’ The voice was dry and faint as though not often used above a whisper. Black took a single step forward. The wind hummed through the railings around the lantern overlook like the moaning of dead men.

  ‘Let me have it,’ Black ordered, holding out his free hand. He took another step. Queer Jack moved back against the railing. From somewhere below them in the inferno there was a massive explosion and Black could feel the base of the lantern shudder beneath his feet. The entire cathedral seemed to creak and shake, a great ark sinking into a hellish ocean. Above them the bombers came on and on, rolling and bucking through the furious sky. The air around them screamed.

  ‘No closer!’

  The detective could see Raymond Loudermilk’s fingers tighten on the wire. If he managed to detonate the device, they would almost certainly be killed outright. If only a small part of the bomb’s contents reached the softening lead of the dome, St Paul’s would become their funeral pyre. The two men stared at each other, separated by no more than four or five feet. Loudermilk’s eyes were blank, hidden by his glasses, their lenses reflecting only fire. For a moment he looked away, tempted by the gigantic, cataclysmic fire all around them. Black used the moment to take another shuffling step, but stopped again as Loudermilk whirled around. The man’s small mouth opened, then closed again.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Black. ‘Tell me what you want to say.’

  ‘I loved him,’ whispered Raymond Loudermilk. ‘I loved them all.’

  ‘I know,’ Black answered soothingly. ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘But it’s over now, Raymond. It’s time to end all this.’ His throat had gone dry as ash and his eyes began to water from the cinders that flew around them like whirling flakes of burning snow. His finger took up the tension on the trigger of the revolver. It would take no more than an instant to aim and fire but if he did the incendiary in Queer Jack’s hand might detonate. Black forced himself to stand rigidly. He could feel the long muscles in his thighs begin to shake and his heart was in his throat. All he needed was a single step, a single rapid movement.

  ‘It will never end,’ said Loudermilk. He took one hand away from his chest and felt for the guardrail at his back. His right heel lifted, looking for purchase. Dear God, thought Black, he’s going to jump. The madman raised his face to the burning sky. ‘See,’ he whispered. ‘See what I have done.’ He lowered his chin and looked directly at Black again. His heel was firmly on one of the lower rails now, his free hand gripping the upper. The muscles of his jaw and neck were tensed. There was no time left.

  Black fired as Loudermilk boosted himself up onto the railing, the bullet tearing into the cartilage and bone around his knee. The man screamed, almost losing his already precarious footing, and Black surged forward, tossing the pistol away to give him free use of both hands. Before Loudermilk could pull the detonator wire of the incendiary, Black was on top of him, tearing the hooked fingers away with one hand and grappling for the canister with the other. Their faces were only inches apart and Black could smell the foul, acidic odour of the other man’s sweat. Fear and death combined. The scent that would have been in David Talbot’s nostrils as he died.

  ‘It will never end,’ hissed Loudermilk. Black rammed his elbow into the man’s side, torso twisting, bringing the ruined knee around to smash into the guardrail. Loudermilk screamed and Black reeled back, wrenching the canister away. For a final instant Loudermilk stood perched high on the railing and then his leg gave way.

  Still clinging to the canister, Black lurched forward but it was too late. The murderer stared at Black, his eyes on fire. He spoke once, lips twisted into the terrible semblance of a smile.

  ‘You knew my name. Remember me!’ and then he toppled backward over the rail.

  Stumbling forward, the detective watched him fall. For a moment it seemed that Queer Jack was flying, borne up on the fiery winds that raged wildly around the dome of the cathedral, the long tails of his overcoat spread around him like a demon’s wings or a winding shroud. He plummeted down, coat-tails trailing fire, smoke wreathed around his head and flailing arms. He struck the bottom edge of the dome and in the blazing light that had turned night into day Black was sure he saw one broken hand reach out, fingers gripping desperately at the heat-softened lead.

  And then he was gone.

  Sobbing for breath, Morris Black sagged down against the railing, hearing Raymond Loudermilk’s final words, and faintly, madly, the distant sound of small chapel bells. He closed his eyes, willing the ghostly bells, the voice and all the other raging sounds of death away. He’d had enough of all of it. No more, he thought, no more.

  After a moment Black dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the lantern stairs. The fires still burned on every side, and in through the cinder-swirling clouds the bombers still flew on, but tonight his own battle had finally come to its end. Queer Jack was dead, and all his secrets were dead with him. Ultra was safe and both it and Raymond Loudermilk would be forgotten, less than footnotes in the unravelling course of time, lost in the flames below. In time, perhaps, the bells might even ring again. He climbed down into the darkness, moving towards the light, thinking of the future and of Katherine.

  Epilogue

  Sunday, May 11, 1941

  5:00 p.m., Greenwich Mean Time

  Leaving London, Capt. Guy Liddell drove towards the Channel coast, skirting Southampton and taking a series of lesser roads that eventually took him to the New Forest and the town of Brockenhurst. He was happy to be out of the city; the night before, the Luftwaffe had launched an enormous raid against London, even larger than the one that had led to the death of Queer Jack a few months previously.

  Rumour had it that the previous night’s raid marked the beginning of a new Blitz offensive against London but Lid
dell knew better. If anything, the raid was a swan song for the German Air Force. Signals picked up and decoded at Bletchley indicated a steady movement of Luftwaffe aircraft and materiel to the east. It was May and with the threat of a Russian winter fading Hitler was turning his attention towards Stalin; England was fast becoming a stage too small for the Nazi leader’s mad ambitions.

  After stopping for a late tea, Liddell continued on his way, turning east along a narrow, winding road that took him through Setley Park to Ladycross Lodge and Hatchet Pond on the northern edge of Beaulieu Heath. It was a strange landscape: half a godforsaken wilderness of brooding woods and harsh, bare rocks, like something out of a novel by one of the Brontës; half a fairyland vision of rolling lupine- and heather-covered hills, all of it sinking into a gathering dusk as a red-gold sun set at his back.

  Several times during the journey the darkening air above Liddell’s head was shattered by the angry, insect buzzing of low-flying Spitfires and Hurricanes from their base at Middle Wallop, hurrying towards the coast on some unknown, urgent mission.

  Liddell found himself smiling; the night before, coincidental with the raid on London, Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy, had taken it upon himself to bring an olive branch to Churchill. He’d flown out of Germany and bailed out over Scotland, right into the hands of the local constabulary. From what Liddell could gather, the high-ranking Nazi had been taken to Latchmere House and was now in the less than tender care of Tin Eye Stephens. Perhaps the swarms of fighters overhead were hoping for even better luck tonight; maybe even Fat Hermann himself, wobbling buttocks squashed into the cramped seat of his favourite Messerschmitt.

  Liddell reached the village of Beaulieu shortly before seven and stopped in front of the Montagu Arms, a large, red-brick building on the main street that looked more like a country house than a village inn. He had called from London to arrange for accommodation and McEntee, the proprietor, came out to greet him personally as he climbed out of the car. McEntee was a bluff, red-faced man in his mid-fifties. The two shook hands.

  ‘Welcome to Beaulieu, sir, and the Montagu Arms.’ McEntee used the local pronunciation of the name, ‘Bewley,’ a custom that dated back to the thirteenth century. ‘I’ll just take your motor car to the garage and then see to your dinner, if that’s all right, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m meeting a friend. He’s living at the Abbey.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ The hospitable smile faded slightly.

  ‘Can you tell me how to get there?’

  McEntee nodded. ‘Of course. Just go straight down the street here and cross the bridge.’ The frown deepened. ‘Someone will take you on from there, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  McEntee nodded. ‘Supper will be in about an hour, sir, if that’s suitable.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Afterwards I could show you the garden, if you like. We’re quite proud of it. The polyanthus in particular. It’s just coming into bloom.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  McEntee’s smile returned. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Leaving McEntee to attend to the car, Liddell walked down the broad village street to its end, then went over a narrow stone bridge. To the left he could see the dark blotch of a small, marshy lake. Beside the bridge an ancient stone weir controlled the flow of water that led to the widening course of the Beaulieu River on the right.

  The Beaulieu was an ocean estuary and the low tide had left a few small boats stranded on the muddy banks, the last rays of the sun tinting them every shade of saffron and gold. A skittering flock of waterfowl jumped into the air, small, anxious shadows rising above the silhouetted shapes of the Abbey ruins on the opposite side of the bridge. Liddell paused and lit his pipe, leaning against the stonework. It was a scene of utter peace and charm, without the slightest hint of war. No wonder Morris Black had chosen this place.

  ‘Sanctuary,’ said a voice out of the gloom. It was Black. He stepped forward, joining Liddell on the bridge. The policeman was dressed like a gamekeeper, complete with shooting jacket, corduroy trousers and rubber Wellingtons.

  ‘Hello, Black.’ Liddell extended a hand, but the policeman turned away from it and crossed his arms on the bridge rail, looking downriver.

  ‘It really is a sanctuary,’ said Black. ‘Officially, that is. One of the four or five places in England that could offer someone full rights of sanctuary within its grounds. Every other church in England could offer sanctuary for forty days, at Beaulieu it was offered for the life of the offender.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Queen Margaret of Anjou, the Countess of Warwick, and Perkin Warbeck, the Pretender, all stood sanctuary at Beaulieu. Rather ironic when you consider what goes on here now.’

  Liddell nodded. That was the point of course; he wasn’t entirely sure what did go on at Beaulieu these days. Officially the Abbey and an unspecified number of cottages and country houses in the area were being used by the euphemistically named Inter Service Research Bureau, a cover term for the equally obscure Special Operations Executive or SOE. The organisation had been established on Churchill’s direct authority as a means of aiding and collaborating with resistance movements in occupied Europe. Its director was an obscure former Conservative member of Parliament named Frank Nelson, who had recently been made privy to the work being done at Bletchley but other than that had no connection to the British intelligence establishment. The independence of SOE was already causing a degree of internecine jealousy, especially since its mandate was disturbingly close to that of MI6.

  ‘You’re happy here?’ asked Liddell after a moment.

  ’Content would be a better word I think,’ said Black, still staring out over the dark water. ‘I’m away from London, at any rate.’

  ‘I never thought of you as being the country squire.’

  ‘Nor I. But it’s better than being an out-of-work detective.’ Black paused. ‘I didn’t really have much say in the matter, actually. Knowing about your bloody Ultra secret made me something of a pariah at the Yard.’ Which, Liddell knew, was at the root of Black’s anger. For him, Ultra was the mark of Cain and that mark would remain until war’s end and perhaps longer. His knowledge of Tennant’s involvement was almost as dangerous; Morris Black was one of the few people in England who knew how close England had come to civil war sparked by Kennedy and a band of British turncoats, not to mention losing the war against Hitler because of their failure to realise the importance of Queer Jack and what he knew.

  Liddell spoke finally. ‘So what do you actually do here?’

  Black shrugged. ‘Teach interrogation techniques, occasionally playact at being a Gestapo agent.’ He paused and glanced at Liddell. ‘I’m really not supposed to say too much.’

  ‘Is that why you met me here?’ Liddell smiled. He tapped out his pipe on the stonework. ‘Horatio at the bridge, defending his companions within?’

  ‘The people I work for are a little suspicious of their sister organizations. I doubt I would have been able to bring you much further than this without a paper storm of authorisations.’ Black gestured towards the shaded buildings and the woods behind him. ‘The ruins back there are full of little men with large weapons who’d like nothing better than to take a potshot at a passing MI5 officer.’ Black smiled coldly. ‘A foot or so across the bridge would be as far as you’d get, I’m afraid.’

  Liddell ignored the veiled threat. ‘Join me for dinner then?’

  Black hesitated for a moment then nodded. ‘Is that why you came all this way?’ he said at last.

  ‘I can fill you in on Queer Jack and the rest of it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I really want to know. But I’ll have a glass of something with you.’

  They walked silently back to the Montagu Arms and went through the spacious, oak-panelled lounge into the dining room. The two men made small talk while Liddell ate and Morris Black worked his way through a decanter of sherry. The meal ended, Liddell sat back in his chair and filled his p
ipe again.

  ‘Do you hear anything from Miss Copeland?’ he asked, putting a match to the bowl.

  ‘No.’ Black shook his head. ‘She went back to Washington. Presumably she’s working for Donovan and his people.’

  ‘Interesting woman. Attractive.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long pause. Liddell realised he was on dangerous ground. ‘Well, at least things seemed to have settled down with the Americans now that Kennedy is gone. This fellow Winant seems to be on our side.’

  ‘So I hear.’ Black nodded. There was another pause. ‘You were going to tell me about Queer Jack.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Liddell blew out a plume of smoke. ‘In the end it appeared that you were right all along. He’d worked with half the people at Bletchley at one time or another, either that or played chess with them.’

  ‘Chess was always part of it. Almost from the beginning. It was the connection to Bletchley as well as his entrée into the Correspondence Chess group.’

  Liddell nodded. ‘Which was how he chose his victims. It was also how our friend Tennant found him out.’

  ‘How long had he known about Ultra?’

  ‘From the start, I’m afraid. He’d worked with Turing on the first decoding machinery. Actually machined some of the parts for it. A mechanical genius. It wasn’t much of a leap from there.’

  ‘You seem to have done a good job keeping it out of the press. It’s been almost five months.’

  ‘Officially Queer Jack never existed. The only record is in Spilsbury’s personal autopsy notes and he’s not named in those. Everything else has been expunged.’

  ‘What did you ever do with that fellow you brought back from the Isle of Man? The one who identified Tennant? Did you “expunge” him as well?’