by Stephen Wade
Ernie, a dapper little man with a pipe stuck in his mouth, half opened the door and squinted through the space. ‘Now my old mate,’ he said, ‘long time no see. What’s the trouble? I can see you got some.’
‘Well, if you let me in I’ll …’
‘Can’t do that old matey, got people in.’
‘What? People … Ernie, it’s me, Jack. The man what stood beside you at Kaffie Dowar. Let me in … there’s peelers after me.’
There were calls from behind the door. Jack could hear people laughing.
‘This is my business, Jack, my occupation now. That soldiering, it was a long time back … anyway, what have you done?’
‘I done nothing. Well, petty theft … I think they want me for a little fight what I had when a cove didn’t want to give me his pocketbook.’
There were more calls from behind, and Ernie, again full of apologetic sounds, closed the door.
Rage rose in Jack’s breast and he slammed his fists against the door, shouting Ernie’s name. From somewhere below a voice thundered out, ‘Shut up will ya!’
It was too much. His knee throbbed with pain; his head was sore, and he felt a shiver of fever rush through him. He felt his legs give way and he slithered down the door. He felt in his pocket for the whisky bottle and desperately raised it to his dry lips.
Right then … pull yourself together, soldier. Covent Garden. You got an order, Tommy. You need to see Mr Sachs and give him some blade, let him meet mister death, like what them Gyptians got. But not yet … you need some golden water, boy, some drink of the bleedin’ Gods. He began to laugh, uncontrollably, louder and louder, so that more voices shouted for him to shut up.
Bedford Street, Jack, number fourteen … Bedford Street, number fourteen … Mr bleedin’ Sachs. He made a determined effort to struggle to his feet and gauge exactly where he was, in which direction he had to walk. Out on the street again, he saw the blur of passers-by and called out to no one in particular, ‘Covent Garden … which way mate?’
Someone pointed and said, ‘Keep going, up here.’
Whisky back in his pocket and his bayonet tucked in his broad leather belt, Jack Garvey forced himself along the pavement, eyes straight ahead, arms swinging. Quick march, you lads, I want a straight line …straight line! The words of the long-time dead played again in his mind: Permission to stay with this officer Sir? He’s got blood seeping out of him Sir, and we have to do the right thing by this young man, Captain. Thank you Sir. I’ll attend to the young man Sir … I’ll sit with him … ducking bullets? Yes, I’ll not mind the bullets Captain. Pray to the God of war p’raps, Sir, like us all did in India … same ’ere Sir, among the Gyptians, Sir. I’ll stay with him.
Lord George’s contacts and influence had paid off, Harry thought, as he sat by a desk in the innards of the War Office at Whitehall, waiting for a clerk to bring someone to help with his search. It was a daunting place, and everyone’s manner had been hard and peremptory as he arrived and announced himself, but at the third interview, at last a face had responded with a smile and said, ‘Ah yes, Lord Lenham-Cawde told me about the problem.’
The clerk arrived, but not accompanied by papers or boxes of files. He had a smart little man in a dark suit by his side. ‘Professor Lacey? I’m Colonel Ranger, Intelligence.’
They shook ands and walked across to the foyer where there were tables and chairs. Someone brought tea, and they sat. ‘Professor, George tells me that you are … how shall I say … sleuths? George always liked the murder stories in the worst kind of penny dreadful rubbish!’
‘We might be amateur, but by God, if we don’t shift tonight, a man may die.’
‘Right … well, in Intelligence we gather facts; we keep records, produce gazetteers, that kind of thing. Now, I had my man look at the muster rolls and the discharges for the regiment. Using a little commonsense and inference, I would say your man was in Egypt back in ’82. This was the Arabi business … your man would have been around twenty-five, let’s say. There was some rather testing scrapping going on. He’s a tough man, your Yorkie broken nose … let’s call him that for now.’
The colonel had been holding a few sheets of paper that the clerk had given him. ‘Now, your man said he had a medal that looked like a flower … well, the King’s Royal Rifle Corps’ badge looks like a four-leaved flower – your Mr Tardow would have seen that.’
Harry was increasingly impressed with the measured tone and delivery in which the colonel spoke. Another sheet of paper was put on the table. ‘Now, I sat down and compiled a list of men of around thirty-five who were born in God’s own county … as my father used to call it, as he was born in Leeds. Now, there is this matter of the other medal.’ He frowned and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. ‘Now if you will allow me to play detective for a second, Professor, could I clarify that this other medal had two words over it?’
‘Yes, that’s what Tardow said,’ Harry replied.
‘Now, in Egypt at that time, some of the regiment were operating as mounted infantry …’
‘Mounted infantry, Colonel Ranger?’ interrupted Harry in disbelief.
‘It’s a long story … but there was an engagement at a place called Kafr Dowar. The King’s men were doing some reconnaissance and came under fire. An officer was down, badly wounded, and a Private Garvey asked permission to stay with him … he did so, binding wounds … very brave man. He was from Bradford, in Yorkshire. This particular man served in India, and was wounded there … and then in Egypt against that swine Arabi … a soldier turned rebel he was.’
Harry was intrigued.
‘There is more. Garvey was awarded the Victoria Cross. As you know, the words ‘For Valour’ are on that very distinguished item. Two words … over yet another kind of flower I suppose.’
Harry gave a gasp of astonishment. ‘Are you saying that our hired killer is a hero of the Empire, Colonel?’
‘It’s possible. There were only seven Yorkshiremen in the list I compiled. I know we were applying merely educated guesswork, but still …’
‘Then we may have the name of our man … but damn it, Colonel, we still don’t know where he lives, if he lives anywhere at all. He may be one of those thousands who crawl from lodging house to lodging house … we’re no further on with this, and I need to move fast, Colonel.’
Harry thanked Colonel Ranger and was out in the street in seconds, on his way to meet Eddie. They may have a name, but it was one attached to an action of the utmost courage, not infamy.
Jack Garvey had made his drunken way to Covent Garden and was asking passers-by for directions to Bedford Street. Under the rough exterior, he was still in possession of that code of honour he had always lived by. If someone paid you to do a job, then you did it. If an officer gave you an order, you obeyed him. It might be a fallen world, but a man could still do right. Many times before he had walked these streets, seeing a landscape of poor, benighted souls, abandoned by those with the power. These corrupt men in fine suits, like this solicitor, they had to be weeded out.
They tried to kill me in India, Sir. Came at me from behind. But them Ghurkas saved me … fine men them Ghurkas, Sir. But let me stay with him, this man is bleeding and he needs me …
His head spun. He felt that he needed to rest, to sit down somewhere. Sachs could wait. Gaggles of city folk came past, smirking and ridiculing, higher-than-thou gents, young bloods ready to flutter away fortunes, or pick a fight with any stray, homeless drifting piece of human flotsam. No, he had to rest for a minute. Then a sign cleared in his view. There were the words The White Lion, a supper club. Yes, he knew right away that Molly McCardle would be there, and she would sing that song just for him. He started to sing it, ‘My heart began to fly … and I’m so happy I could cry …’ The Lord’s best gift to frail humanity was a good drink, and Molly would be there too. He took some steps towards the door and was soon inside, on the edge of a crowd. He laid an arm across the back of a fat man in front, then applied some pressure. There was
a cry as the man fell forward.
‘Hey! Who are you pushing?’
‘I wanna see Molly … she’s singing, I can hear her singing.’ Garvey forced his way through the crowd towards a large back room where there were broad tables, people seated, and on a low stage that ran along the length of the room, there was Molly McCardle. She was sitting on a swing, the ropes covered with paper roses, wound around. From her arm there hung a lace-topped reticule and on her head a little girl’s folded hat with a band around it.
He sat at a long table, again pushing in. A man grabbed hold of his collar and then, seeing his ribboned chest exclaimed, ‘My Gawd … a Victoria Cross!’
Jack looked up at Molly and called out her name. She swung gently on the flowery swing and came to a stop as her song ended. There was loud applause and a host of cat-calls and whistles. Then she heard one voice calling to her: ‘Molly … Molly my dear, sing “My Heart Began to Fly”.’
She knew the voice. Standing up and stepping forward, a smile to melt the toughest heart, she said, ‘One of my regulars hey! I hear you, mister, I hear you. Here’s a song requested by this Tommy … he’s got a VC on his chest and love in his heart, folks!’
From the far door, Harry, who had been keeping watch on the pub for three days, heard her words. He had Leo with him; it was too exposed a place to be on your own, and Leo had offered. They knew at once that they had their man. Harry’s first response was to rush the crowd and get to the man, but he soon realised that Garvey would not be going anywhere until Molly finished the song. He dashed out into the street to find any constables who might be around. Of course, Harry knew that Jack had not broken the law – he had not hurt anyone and had been nowhere near Sachs – but they had to stop him before he did. Leo was moving in his wake, but Harry called, ‘Stay there, in case he runs!’
Molly McCardle was stepping this way and that, in a little dance, entrancing the crowd with ‘All he did was kiss me, but my heart began to fly’. She cupped a hand to one ear, encouraging them to sing along, and the crowd responded, well trained. The loudest voice belonged to Jack Garvey and he boomed out the last verse,
‘I’m so happy I could cry,
And I don’t want to wonder why,
There’s a warm tear in my eye,
And all that he did was to kiss me …’
Jack tried to scramble up onto the stage, and as Molly stepped back, Leo and two burly men came from the side, towards him. He saw them and rushed instead towards the back door, blowing a last kiss to Molly, who blew a kiss back to him.
He was soon out in the cold air, sweat running down his face and his heart beating so powerfully that it thumped in his throat. For some time he closed his eyes and all he could see was Molly McCardle’s face. I never had no chance of a good woman … never had a chance, Captain!
His breathing gradually slowed and he felt for the bayonet, still held firmly inside his coat in a deep pocket, in its metal case. Touching it brought back his sense of duty, and he reminded himself what he must do. The night was closing in now. Not far away, he heard a whistle blow and voices were calling out his name. ‘This is the police, Jack Garvey … give yourself up!’
He knew where he was going now – just two corners away was the man he had to see out of the world. Yes, this Sachs, who was threatening a good man. He turned towards his destination, driven by the kind of instinct that guides a hunter to his prey.
Eddie and a detective sergeant strode from inn to inn, questioning the loafers and the drifters. From a throng of drunks singing an old ballad, a constable came towards them. ‘No use, Guv. This Tommy … not a soul seems to know him, or if they do, they’re keeping quiet about it.’
‘Right, give it up for tonight constable, get the men back to the station. We’ve wasted enough time on this,’ Eddie said. It was the constable who first heard Harry shouting for assistance. When they met, Harry explained that Jack Garvey was inside the supper club and they rushed back, hoping to find their man still admiring the singer, but the bird had flown, and Harry joined the police and Eddie for a trawl of the surrounding streets.
‘We’re near Sachs’s office … he’s got to be going there,’ Eddie said. ‘Harry, we’ll head straight there – sergeant, gather the two armed detectives and follow us … fourteen Bedford Street!’
Harry and Eddie moved as quickly as they could, but Harry could not keep up. ‘Damn, I’m too old for this, Carney!’ He had to stop and recover his breath. ‘We must press on Harry,’ urged Eddie, ‘it’s a matter of life and death!’
At the corner of St Paul’s Eddie called out, ‘Just around here … down Henrietta Street and there we are – come on!’ He was very much the younger and fitter man and he pushed on. At the end of Henrietta Street he looked right and he could hear a banging. He ran toward the sound, calling out behind, telling Harry to turn right.
Jack had kicked his way into the solicitor’s office. The door gave way to the sheer brutality of his attack, and as he stood in the room, there was Sachs, sitting at the desk. But as he saw the man before him, he yelled out, ‘Detective come!’ Sergeant Davis was shaving in the back room, but he ran in. His coat was over a chair, his gun in the pocket, and he dived for it, but Jack got to him first and swung his fist at the officer’s jaw, sending him onto the floor. Sachs jumped up and ran towards the back of the room in fear.
‘You must be the bag o’ bones I’m after – Mr Sachs, right? Well, I got this for you.’ Jack took out the bayonet from the case and held it high, moving forward and lunging at Sachs, who stood against the wall, paralysed with terror.
At that second a crack snapped out from the doorway and a bullet slammed into the soldier’s back, sending him crashing forward against the desk. He fell to the ground, rolling onto his side, and then onto his back. The bayonet fell away, clattering to the floor.
Davis had staggered back to his feet and Eddie Carney moved forward, still holding the pistol. They stood over the dying man, who had one hand over his chest, clutching the Victoria Cross. His head rocked as he said, ‘Nearly made it, Sir. Too many of the enemy … cowards came from behind me!’ He froze in death, his eyes like glass in a waxwork.
‘We killed a very dangerous man, Davis,’ said Eddie. Harry, who had now arrived, still fighting for breath, said, ‘Yes, but you also killed a very courageous man, one who loved his country,’ and he saluted the dead man.
‘We helped the Honourable Sir John Tardow, future Member of Parliament, Harry. But this was another honourable man – gone wrong.’
‘Indeed, and if I am not mistaken, had this killing taken place, Mr Tardow would be heading for some penal servitude in a convict prison.’
Eddie nodded. ‘Yes. In fact, I think we’re looking down at the honourable man.’
Molly McCardle had retreated from the stage and was in her makeshift dressing room, where Leo had used his charm to gain entrance. He looked every inch the aristocrat, and Molly was familiar with his type.
‘They let you in then … my strong-arms?’
‘Oh yes … but rest assured I’m here for entirely honourable purposes. I’m protecting you from that obnoxious man who was at the front of the crowd out there.’
‘I’ve got some very capable protectors thank you, Mr … ’ She looked him up and down and decided that he would have money to spend on her.
‘Aubrey Leo Antoine at your service!’ He tipped his head, taking off his brown bowler as he did so.
‘What? Not the Aubrey Antoine, the novelist?’
‘Yes, I am he. Would you care for dinner, my dear?’
She smiled and told him to wait while she took off her stage clothes. ‘Turn away, there’s a nice gentleman!’
Leo helped himself to a glass of brandy on her table and thought that, just for a change, when the next case came up he would insist on being the detective, with Harry as his assistant. On the other hand, he thought, as he caught a glimpse of a lovely ankle, there were compensations …
Sachs never learnt what
Tardow had done. The story he heard was that a madman on the loose had been tracked down and stopped. But the libel case had to go on, and Floriana Dalia was told that she was Meg Caley of Spitalfields. She tried very hard to deny it, but she lived in a world in which fallen women stayed down in the dark where no one could be shamed by them, or so the press said.
One day, as the trial was in full flow, John Tardow came down to breakfast and was told that his wife had gone, her destination unknown and no letter of explanation left for her husband. He never stood for Parliament and spent most of his time and attention growing vegetables and dreaming of Paris.
About the Author
Stephen Wade teaches creative writing part-time at the University of Hull. He is also a freelance writer and historian who specialises in crime and military history. He regularly writes for local and family history magazines and is involved with running oral history workshops. His previous non-fiction titles include Lincolnshire Murders, Hanged at Lincoln and The A-Z of Curious Lincolnshire. This is his first fiction title. He lives in Scunthorpe, Lincolnshire.
Copyright
First published in 2014
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2014
All rights reserved
© Stephen Wade, 2014
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