Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  There was a palpable air of tension in the farmhouse. Despite Atkins’s reassurances, they were rattled by Weeks’s unmasking.

  ‘I just knew he was a wrong’un, the moment I clapped eyes on him,’ Laurie Baker said, looking out moodily from under his low fringe.

  ‘Me, too.’ Bates added. ‘I dunno what came over Tommy – he’s usually so careful.’

  Sammy spoke. ‘I know what it was.’ They looked at the little man but couldn’t hold his gaze. His eyes were everywhere, avoiding contact.

  ‘Go on then, tell us.’

  ‘It was either women or booze.’ His eyes continued searching the corners of the room. ‘You know how he gets when he’s had one too many. Everyone’s his friend.’

  ‘True,’ Baker said.

  ‘And I seem to remember him saying that first night he met Johnny he’d had a run in with some tart and Johnny was nice to him – listened to his problems.’

  ‘I bet he bleedin’ did,’ Bates added, and went on, ‘what d’you think Tommy plans on doing with him, Laurie? You know him better than the rest of us.’

  Baker cupped his chin and rubbed his hand on the bristles. ‘I shudder to think. You know what Tommy’s like – one minute all sweetness and light, the next…’

  ‘Yeah, he can certainly be a moody bugger,’ Bates said.

  Sammy stopped looking round the room for a moment, his eyes fixed on Baker. ‘Worse than moody, he can be downright dangerous.’

  -0-

  Helen had some time to kill so she went to the WH Smiths bookstall and perused the magazines. She was delighted to find the latest copy of Harper’s Bazaar. With Audrey Hepburn on the cover, she knew she was in for a treat and was happy to pay the price for the American import. The day was mild so she took it outside and sat on a bench to read. In this way, she could clearly see the clock face on Little Ben and keep an eye on the time: 6.35. She didn’t want to miss her rendezvous.

  Earlier, Russell had arrived at Charing Cross Station. He was in plenty of time and as it was a pleasant afternoon he decided to walk. Once through Admiralty Arch he turned into Saint James’s Park, passing nannies pushing their charges in Silver Cross prams and gentlemen in their weekend lounge suits taking the air. He picked up Buckingham Palace Road and was at Victoria station in less than half an hour.

  Once inside he went down into the gents, so he could effect a change. The dapper man in a trim navy suit who had entered the cubicle, emerged, still smart, in a porter’s garb. He had put his jacket and homburg hat in the valise and when he regained the station concourse he found the left-luggage lockers and deposited the bag, locking the door and tucking the key in his pocket. Looking round, he soon spotted a porter’s barrow, near the entrance to the platforms. He stood nearby for a while, thumbs hooked in the waistcoat’s pockets, but nobody claimed it. So, whistling a snatch of Mack Gordon’s Chatanooga Choo Choo he walked up to it, grasped the handles and wheeled it along the station concourse.

  There was a tricky moment when a porter came towards him, struggling with a trolley, laden with cases, but the man just nodded and passed by. Emboldened, Russell continued outside the station building, into the gathering gloom. Pushing his barrow he saw a woman sitting on a bench, with a magazine on her lap, and almost started when he thought it was Helen. But, as he drew closer, he realised he had been mistaken; the woman was older and coarser. He kept away from the rank where a row of Austin FX3 cabs stood – he didn’t want anyone actually to employ his services. He just stood whistling nonchalantly and staring into space. He hoped it looked as if he was waiting for a particular fare.

  Then, further along, he saw her. Russell’s heart skipped a beat, whether from emotion or tension he couldn’t say. She was sitting on a bench near the clock. He needed to get closer but not too close, so that he remained unobtrusive. Pulling his cap further down on his head, he began to push the barrow in a wide circle behind where she was sitting. He settled on the other side of a large iron pillar where he gauged he was in a good position to observe her and any companion she might meet, and also hopefully to hear what was being said between them. He settled down to wait. But just then he felt a sharp, painful tap on his shoulder and smelt a waft of 4711 eau de cologne.

  ‘My man, my man!’ Russell’s heart sank into his boots as he turned reluctantly to face a large, imposing woman, the spitting image of Margaret Rutherford. ‘My man!’ the piercing voice rang out again. Russell wondered if his cover was blown but daren’t look round to see.

  ‘Madam,’ he said at last, somehow managing to sound relatively cheerful, ‘how can I help?’

  ‘I need to catch a train of course,’ the woman boomed as if she was talking to a fool. ‘Take this and this while I carry my little Bobo and be quick. Platform 10 now!’ Bobo, a small, brown, bad-tempered Yorkshire terrier, bared its tiny teeth and snarled at him.

  The woman had only one bag and two small packages wrapped in brown paper and was quite capable of transporting them herself but she was obviously used to being waited upon and having her orders obeyed. So, rather than make a fuss and draw any more attention to himself, Russell touched his cap, put the luggage, such as it was, on to his barrow, and followed in her wake to the platform she had indicated. Once he had decanted her and her property into a first-class carriage, and narrowly avoided being nipped by the repulsive Bobo, Russell, who didn’t receive a tip or a thank you, hurried back towards the bench where Helen was, much to his relief, still sitting engrossed in her magazine. He continued past her, back to his position behind the pillar, but she took no notice of him. His disguise was working.

  He hadn’t been standing back there for long when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a man, dressed in what he initially thought were standard British Railways clothes, come out of the station, walk past Helen, then stop and sit on the bench next to her. Russell sneaked a sideways glance. He could see the man was actually wearing drainpipe trousers and sported a bootlace tie. His hair was elaborately styled with a sculpted quiff and the sides combed back to form what was known as a duck’s arse at the neck. They made an unlikely pair – the elegant lady about town and the BR Teddy boy.

  As soon as he had sat down Helen suddenly threw her arms round the man’s neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Then, just as quickly, she took her arms away and glanced round, embarrassed in case anyone should have witnessed her impetuous show of affection. Russell didn’t count, he was an anonymous railway servant. But Russell was embarrassed by what he had witnessed – and more than a little confused. But still he stood there, secretly observing.

  The pair sat without speaking for some time then Helen looked at the man. ‘Are you okay, Simon?’ she asked.

  He nodded and replied. His back was towards Russell so, frustratingly, all he heard was a mumble.

  ‘Is it still okay?’ Russell could hear Helen clearly.

  The man spoke again.

  Suddenly she sat bolt up right. ‘What?’ she exclaimed.

  The man held his hands out in submission and appeared to say something placatory.

  Helen visibly relaxed. ‘It’s still on?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘And the train leaves Brighton at 9.30?’

  Again he nodded.

  ‘Still a goods train?’

  Russell caught a few words in reply. Something about ‘overcrowding’ and the ‘need to reschedule’.

  Helen put her head in her hands and he heard her mumble: ‘Oh, God.’

  The man took her hands down, held them in his and said something.

  ‘So it shouldn’t make any difference?’ she asked.

  He shook his head and began to stand.

  She reached up and held his arm. ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. She stood up and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and squeezed her hand and Russell heard him say, ‘See you soon.’ Russell looked into the distance as Simon passed by in front of him.

  Chapter 17

  The previous year

  Slough of
Despond: described by Bunyan as: ‘A place that cannot be mended where, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears and doubts and discouraging apprehensions’.

  Wolfgang was on tenterhooks. For several days, since the uncomfortable, not to say nerve-racking, hour or so he had spent in the company of the creepy Dickens, he had been waiting, not only for a return visit but for a letter from the equally creepy Doctor Baxter. Neither had turned up so far. He was getting low on food and had been drinking tea and coffee without milk as he didn’t want to leave the boat yard to go to the local shop, in case he bumped into the yard owner.

  He was very tempted to slip his moorings in the night and just disappear. But to where? His options were pretty limited. He couldn’t head east along the coast, as that would bring him too close to Nottery Quay, where the boat was known, and even more dangerous, Compass Point, where he had bought her, so that direction was out. And west? That would take him to the more populous waters of Chichester, Portsmouth and the Solent which was also not a good idea. France? After his near miss with Inspecteur Bruissement in the bar-tabac, France didn’t seem a very wise choice either. If it wasn’t for the fact that his brother, Ludwig, was locked up in prison and he had a determination to get him released, he would happily have ended it all. Without that burning desire, there didn’t seem much point in carrying on, especially as Dickens now had such a vice-like hold over him. Not for the first time he felt totally helpless, if not hopeless.

  He was starting to spiral down into what Bunyan had described as a Slough of Despond and he knew he didn’t want to go to that dark place, but seemed to have no will to stop himself. He was just reaching for the brandy bottle when there was a step on the deck. The boat lurched and so did his stomach. It could only be Dickens. Sure enough, the cabin doors opened and the man’s grimy face appeared, grinning as he descended the steps. Noticing Wolfgang holding the bottle, his eyes lit up.

  ‘Good man! What a great idea.’ Reluctantly Wolfgang picked up two glasses and poured a measure into each. Dickens grabbed his and toasted Wolfgang. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, then drained the glass, immediately holding it out for a refill. After Wolfgang had topped him up he sat back and relaxed, his hand going automatically to the scrubby beard. The less than companionable silence stretched for a while until he said: ‘Oh, I almost forgot, this came for you.’ He reached into his jacket and withdrew a crumpled envelope. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit battered. Oh, and I opened it by mistake. Couldn’t read the name on the front properly. Thought it might be meant for me.’

  Wolfgang, almost speechless with fury, snatched it from him and was just able to grunt, ‘thanks.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it then? Might be important.’ Dickens feigned surprise. ‘Oh, it is important, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve seen it already.’ He cackled and had another drink. Wolfgang’s hands were shaking as he took a single sheet of paper out of the envelope and read:

  Dear M. Meunier,

  I am writing following your visit to my clinic last week. After assessing the results of my thorough examination of your diseased limb and consulting with my medical colleagues, I have come to a number of conclusions.

  This infliction, visited upon your person in childhood, has caused you great distress and discomfort and inconvenience, as well as actual pain.

  If this infliction had received adequate treatment earlier in your life the spread of its debilitating effects may have been mitigated.

  But, as the continuing onset has not been checked, you find yourself in this unfortunate state.

  However, I believe that with the correct surgery, we can not only halt the progress of this debilitating affliction but actually reverse its progress.

  In consequence, I urge you to accept my offer of surgery. This would require a general anaesthetic, to render you incapacitated. But, in this unconscious state we will be able to operate on you. As explained, I intend to break then lengthen the bones.

  The operation will take several hours and I will need a competent team around me – anaesthetist, two assistants and two nurses. As a consequence, this procedure will not be inexpensive. In addition you will need several weeks, if not months convalescence in a suitable location with nursing staff on hand. I can organise such a facility if you so wish, and I urge you to take advantage of my knowledge in this area.

  My fee for undertaking the operation and providing convalescent after care facilities for a minimum of four weeks comes to a total of six hundred guineas. Further convalescent care will be on a pro rata basis.

  In order to show your good will, I ask that you pay a security deposit – in advance – amounting to one third of the total. That is two hundred guineas – in cash. I suggest you send the money by registered delivery.

  On receipt of the said deposit, I will inform you of the date of the proposed procedure.

  Yours, Nathan Baxter

  Doctor Nathan Baxter, FRCS.

  Wolfgang read the letter twice. The first time he scanned it quickly, the second he took his time to absorb the details. When he had finished he sat back, non-plussed.

  ‘Thought that would give you a bit of surprise.’ Wolfgang looked up. He had forgotten that Dickens was still there. The man was grinning at him, all stumps and gaps. ‘You want my advice?’ Wolfgang just stared. ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.’ He leaned forward. ‘You don’t know this man, do you?’ The German shook his head. ‘He might have letters after his name, but anyone can do that. It seems a whole heap of money, doesn’t it?’ Wolfgang nodded solemnly. ‘And, to put it frankly, it sounds awfully bloody risky. Are you sure you want it done?’

  Wolfgang felt wretched. The letter had just piled more misery on to his already depressed mood. He felt helpless and, however distasteful he found the man, he was the nearest thing to a friend he now had. ‘What do you think I should do?’ He looked imploringly at Dickens, whose smile widened.

  ‘First of all, I think you should top up our drinks.’ He held out his glass. When it was filled to his satisfaction he continued: ‘Then you should consider very carefully if you want to go through all that pain and distress, not to mention the length of time you’ll be out of action.’ He paused. ‘And of course, the cost. Do you have that sort of money?’

  ‘I do have funds, but it might be a little difficult to gain access to that amount of money.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s what I thought.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Now listen.’ Wolfgang looked up, a hopeless expression on his face. ‘I didn’t intend that you undertook our little voyage without some sort of pay-off. That would be just cruel. I’m not saying that the amount you’d get would cover what you need but it might go some way towards it.’

  Wolfgang nodded slowly. He was still deeply depressed but perhaps there was a glimmer of light at the end of a very long tunnel. He knew that what Dickens wanted him to do was highly dangerous but with the life he’d led and the risks he’d taken over the past few months, it couldn’t be any worse than what he’d been through. If it all went according to plan and he could free himself from the burden of Dickens’s hold over him, he would be able to continue his quest to have his brother released from prison. His mind was clearing and he was able to think ahead – beyond the present. He put his thoughts into words. ‘You might be able to do something else for me.’

  ‘Ah, well, that depends what it is.’

  Wolfgang seemed to rally slightly. He decided to appeal to the man’s vanity. ‘You seem to be a man of many abilities.’

  Dickens smirked. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

  ‘And you have contacts in many areas?’

  ‘That’s true, I do.’

  ‘Are you able to get hold of papers?’

  ‘What sort of papers exactly?’ His expression had changed to one of suspicion.

  Wolfgang pressed on, feeling he might have gained a slight advantage. ‘Identity papers – passports.’

  Dickens’s smirk returned. ‘Oh, I see. You’d l
ike to change your identity - properly.’

  ‘It could be advantageous to you too…’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If I was able actually to become Monsieur Meunier and anything untoward occurred on our voyage, it might be better if my real identity was hidden.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Dickens said thoughtfully, his hand on his beard. ‘The Irish do have certain sympathies for Germans, but they probably wouldn’t for you!’ His laugh was more like a cackle and ended in a fit of coughing.

  Wolfgang sat and watched until the man had regained control. ‘So, can you do it? Do you know the right people?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Dickens stood up, put his empty glass down on the table and looked sternly at him, the laughter now gone. ‘Yes, I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, you’d better hurry up and decide what you’re going to do about this letter. I’ve got a cargo that needs shifting – and I want it moved soon.’ The smile returned to his lips but the look in his eyes remained hard. ‘You do realise that I could just take your boat, if I wanted to? I don’t think you’d be inclined to report it stolen to the police. Would you now?’ He gave a little bow. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to decide – for the time being. I’ll pop by to see you tomorrow. Oh, and by the way. You can go out to the shop now. I know you’ve been avoiding me.’ He winked, and made his way out of the cabin.

  Chapter 18

  The London Underground also known by its nickname the Tube, is a public rapid transit system serving London and some parts of the adjacent counties of Buckinghamshire, Essex and Hertfordshire.