In Spite of All Terror

by V M Knox

  ‘And,’ Johnny added. ‘Elsie - or Jane as you are calling her - is on a train for Rye.’

  Chapter 28

  Leaving Lewes Police Station, they walked towards the waiting police car. Clement checked his watch. Four o’clock. In another twelve hours he would be on Winchelsea Beach. His mind drifted back to his childhood and the hours he had spent with his mother wandering along the shore collecting whatever the tide brought in. He remembered them with such affection. Halcyon days, he thought, but no longer. His memories now of Winchelsea Beach would forever be tainted with betrayal.

  Whenever Clement thought about Phillip Haswell, he felt nauseous. How could he not have known Phillip’s true leanings? It reinforced his belief that no-one really knows the people with whom one spends one’s life. His mind turned to Mary. He wanted to speak to her; to learn why she had lied. He had tried calling the vicarage but the telephone in the front hall had rung and rung without answer. And now they could wait no longer.

  He looked across to Arthur Morris sitting with him in the back seat of the car. Johnny had taken the front seat beside the police driver. Morris had his eyes closed but Clement was sure he was not asleep. ‘How was Inspector Russell’s car used?’

  Morris opened his eyes. ‘Not one hundred percent sure, but I think it was where Lieutenant Ellis was stored overnight, before being transferred into the Doctor’s car. Remember I told you; there is nearly always a witness. But unless it is blatant, that witness may not even be aware of what they are seeing. And as the police station is at one end of the village, a car could come and go in that back lane without raising suspicion. In fact, as long as the cars are similar and are parked in the same place, it is assumed by any casual observer that it is the car belonging to either Doctor Haswell or Inspector Russell. But what if the cars were switched in their parking places or even substituted for a few hours...would anyone take any notice?’

  Clement stared through the window at nothing much reflecting on what Morris had just said. ‘I saw Phillip drive away on Friday. It was when Peter and I were in your office at the police station. The day we found George. I even waved to him. Though I couldn’t say if it was his car or not. But it was his car in Lewes Hospital. And the body of Lieutenant Ellis must have already been in the boot of his car when Phillip left Fearnley Maughton.’

  ‘Not necessarily. And it is possible that Doctor Haswell might not have known the body was there.’

  ‘You think Haswell is innocent?’ Clement asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Either way, Lieutenant Ellis was put into Doctor Haswell’s car on the previous night,’ Clement added.

  ‘That would be a safe assumption.’ Morris closed his eyes.

  ‘Brought out of the forest in David Russell’s car then transferred to Doctor Haswell’s car during the night,’ Clement said, almost to himself.

  Morris opened his eyes a second time. ‘Again, not necessarily. As I said earlier, Clement, I do not believe it was Inspector Russell’s car that went into the forest. There was no sign of leaf matter in the tyre treads of either car. Of course, the tyres might have been washed but someone would have witnessed that. However, I do believe that Inspector Russell’s car was used for storage and retrieval.’

  Clement remembered he had seen Phillip driving into the rear lane one evening. Was he really sure it had been Phillip’s car? It may even not have been the Doctor driving. Morris had said it was all about timing. Clement leaned his head back, reflecting on that night. He had seen the headlights and made the assumption it was Phillip Haswell. When was that? Clement thought. It had been the night he had cycled out to Peter’s to enquire about the report. George was already dead, lying in the leaves of Maughton Forest. And what of Lieutenant Ellis? Was he already in the boot of Haswell’s car?

  The police car drove into Rye just on dusk. Stepping from the car outside Rye Police Station, Clement breathed in the salty air. He knew every corner, every twisting byway in the town. His eyes darted to his left. Against the skyline he could see the spire of St Mary’s, his father’s old church, in the dwindling light. He had no wish to go there; the place held too many memories. Closing the car door, he walked with Morris and Johnny towards the front of Rye Police Station.

  ‘Since you telephoned earlier, Sir,’ the police Sergeant said, ‘we’ve had the railway station under constant surveillance.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Morris said.

  ‘Now, how can we be of assistance?’ the Sergeant asked.

  ‘We will need a room to formulate our plans and any maps of the town and area you have. Ordnance Survey maps would be especially helpful.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Sir. In the meantime, I’ll arrange some tea and something for you all to eat.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Morris replied.

  ‘Is there a telephone I can use,’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Yes. In the Inspector’s office,’ the Sergeant said, pointing to a door further down the corridor.

  ‘Has Jane been sighted?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Yes, but not intercepted.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far as it happens. The Standard Inn in The Mint.’

  ‘I know it,’ Clement said. ‘She will probably take the Needles Passage to Wish Street then across the Strand Quay for Winchelsea. It is only about three miles.’

  ‘You have someone watching her, Sergeant?’ Morris asked.

  ‘One of my people, actually, Chief Inspector,’ Johnny said re-entering the room. ‘They followed Jane to the inn and took rooms. When Jane makes her move, they’ll telephone us here.’

  ‘What about Phillip Haswell?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Hasn’t been sighted yet,’ the Sergeant added. ‘We have checked all the inns. But, of course, he could be using an alias. The description of the suspect could fit any number of men in the town.’

  ‘Only Reverend Wisdom would recognise Doctor Haswell in the dark,’ Morris said.

  Clement frowned remembering what Arthur had told him about Phillip always being unavailable. He tried to remember the sequence of events, but they had been so rapid, his memory had become confused.

  Morris had always said it was about timing. Clement thought back. The Chief Inspector had arrived in the village the afternoon of David Russell’s death and Phillip Haswell had not left the village until the following Friday. Four days. Yet in those few, event-filled days, Phillip Haswell had evaded Morris. Despite Clement’s earlier doubts about Haswell’s betrayal, the evidence was undeniable.

  ‘At least we know where Jane is,’ Johnny said. ‘If Haswell and the girl are to rendezvous, it will either be here or on Winchelsea Beach. But they will not make their move for a few hours yet. It’s a waiting game for now. One thing is certain, they will be on the beach at zero four hundred hours tomorrow morning because that submarine will not wait any longer than its prescribed time.’ Johnny helped himself to some tea.

  It would be a long night.

  ‘Could I also use the telephone, Sergeant?’ Clement asked. The Sergeant led him to a vacant room further along the corridor. Clement closed the door. The room held only a desk, a chair and a telephone. He dialled his home number and waited but no-one answered.

  Clement said a quiet prayer for Mary and for his men at Coleshill. And he prayed for himself, Morris and Johnny for whatever happened this night, it would end badly for someone. He glanced up at the half frosted window in the room. From the diminishing light outside he could tell it was now nearly dark.

  He rejoined the group as the Sergeant unrolled a map of Rye and spread it out over the table. They gathered around. A pencil mark had already been drawn on one street, indicating The Standard Inn on The Mint.

  ‘How many people do you have available, Commander?’ Morris asked Johnny.

  ‘Just the two. But both are seasoned operatives. Jane will not detect them. Sergeant, do you have a police motorcycle?’

  ‘Yes, but no petrol, Commander.’


  ‘Have your constable drain some from our car. It would be best to have it available, as a diversion, if required.’

  ‘Would you prefer, Commander Winthorpe that this was handled as a security matter or a police matter?’ Morris asked.

  Clement glanced at Johnny.

  ‘Police matter is best, I think,’ Johnny answered.

  Clement saw Morris tilt his head. The gesture was familiar to Clement now and one Morris used to indicate his scepticism.

  ‘If we are to have any hope of apprehending the suspects, some of us must be in place on the beach well before four o’clock,’ Johnny said.

  ‘You are proposing we divide, Commander?’ Morris asked.

  ‘I am suggesting that I leave Rye earlier taking the motorcycle and conceal myself at the northern end of Winchelsea Beach. That way I am in place should any unforeseen problems occur. Once Clement has identified Haswell and the rendezvous taken place, you both then make your dash for the beach.’

  ‘Could we not apprehend them before they arrive at the beach? Say, here at the bridge?’ Morris asked, his finger on the map.

  ‘I agree that would be easier all around. But we would need to be sure that Jane and Haswell have already joined up. What if they go separately to the beach? If the rendezvous is in any way compromised, Haswell or the girl could abort and we would lose them both. Clement, is there more than one way to Winchelsea Beach?’

  ‘Yes. The road, of course, and there is an inland walking track that crosses the dunes.’

  ‘Whilst I think it more likely they would use the road at such an hour, we cannot be sure,’ Johnny said.

  ‘The beach it is, then,’ Morris added. ‘Once your people confirm that Jane has left the inn, and Clement has identified Haswell, he and I will go to Winchelsea Beach. We can conceal ourselves somewhere along The Ridge.’ Morris’s finger pointed to the strip of roadway on the map that hugged the beach front. ‘It is a bit exposed, but that should not be too great a problem at night. We will also see the landing craft sent to collect them. Clement, the beach at Winchelsea is it sand or shingle?’

  ‘Shingle.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘What about ordnance?’ Clement asked, looking at the Sergeant.

  The Sergeant spread another map on the table. Small green circles dotted the beach. ‘The larger circles are anti-tank mines,’ the Sergeant told them.

  ‘And the smaller ones with spikes?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Anti-personnel.’

  Clement studied the clusters of green circles spaced along the beach. Each mine had been placed at approximately twenty-foot intervals along the land-side edge of the beach about ten feet in from the roadway. He could feel his eyes widening. Whilst the anti-tank mines presented no problem for a man on foot, it was a different story for the anti-personnel explosives and ordnance survey maps were notoriously inaccurate.

  ‘How far apart are the anti-tank mines from the anti-personnel mines?’ Morris asked.

  ‘About a yard either side,’ the Sergeant replied.

  Clement flicked a glance at Morris and Johnny. Fleeting though it was, their eyes held the same reaction. If he had not believed the mission to be suicidal before, he did now.

  Johnny was the first to speak. ‘As soon as the targets are on the beach, we move in around them. Once I see them pass me, I will start the motorcycle. When you hear the motor, you can run onto the beach. What is the wind forecast for tonight, Sergeant?’

  ‘Around two knots, Commander, south south-west. So quite calm.’

  There was silence for some minutes. Clement glanced at the faces of the men alongside whom he was soon likely to die. He thought their expressions mirrored his own. He had seen it before, in the trenches, moments before the whistle sounded. The interesting thing about impossible missions, he believed, was the silent acceptance of them. Fear disappears when death is inevitable. At least, that had been his experience of the men with whom he had served. There was a job to be done. That was all they needed to know.

  ‘When they hear the motorcycle they will start to run, surely,’ Clement added.

  ‘It doesn’t give us much time,’ Johnny agreed. ‘But by then everyone is exposed. It should be expected that they will be armed. And the boatman may well have a machine gun mounted in the craft.’

  Clement remembered the two-week life expectancy. Now it was a matter of hours. He wriggled his ankle. But a knife, even a commando knife, was a risky venture on the beach with a younger man who was also the enemy. And not worth a farthing against a mounted machine gun. A Sten was what he needed. ‘Sergeant, do you have any binoculars?’

  ‘I can arrange that, Sir.’

  ‘A Sten gun would have been useful,’ Clement added, thinking of his pack in the filing cabinet in the church office.

  ‘Already thought of, Clement,’ Johnny said. ‘And both my operatives have pistols, as do I.’

  ‘Right. So, Clement and I will position ourselves midway along the roadway, adjacent to the beach and opposite the most northern groyne. The topographical map shows a ditch on the opposite side of the road, from which there would be a clear view of the beach and both sides of the groyne. According to the ordnance survey map there is a gap between the buried mines directly opposite the line of sight from the ditch to the groyne pylons. Commander Winthorpe, as you will be at the beach before us, can you cut the wire there in advance? That way you will know exactly where Clement and I will station ourselves. Once we see Jane and Haswell, we can cross the road and run onto the beach in a straight line to the pylons. We should have a reasonable chance of cutting them off.’

  ‘Sir, all the horizontal boards on the groynes have been removed. Only the uprights remain,’ the Sergeant put in.

  ‘How tall are these pylons?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Well over a man’s height, Sir, and spaced about ten feet apart.’

  ‘But enough to offer some protection?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Limited,’ the Sergeant added.

  ‘Morris is right,’ Johnny said. ‘The landing craft may not beach. It could stand offshore but the pylons offer the only protection while the targets swim out and board the dinghy.’

  ‘Would the Germans know the locations of the mines?’ Clement asked.

  ‘It is wise to assume they do,’ Johnny said.

  Johnny must have seen Clement’s sceptical expression.

  ‘Intelligence of that sort is much prized and highly paid for, Clement. We cannot assume that everyone is a patriot.’ Johnny paused. ‘Paid for,’ he muttered.

  Clement looked up. ‘Using five pound notes, perhaps?’

  ‘It is possible, Clement,’ Johnny responded, ‘those notes would be very useful for any other future German spies arriving in England.’

  Clement wondered about the notes. Not that he believed the whole business had ever been about money. But if five pound notes lined the pockets of Jane and Phillip, the money would provide a tangible link to the murder of David Russell.

  The room was quiet. Clement knew they were all wondering what lay ahead on Winchelsea Beach. He did not believe Phillip and Jane would ever allow themselves to be caught. Much less stand trial for either espionage or murder. The best Clement could hope for was to kill them before they, or the machine gun in the dinghy, killed him. His thoughts disturbed him. Several times since Clement had become involved in the Auxiliary Units he had said that he felt less and less like a vicar. Once, he could never have imagined even thinking such thoughts. He remembered Gubbins’s words about killing. But this had become personal; Phillip Haswell was a man he knew, or at least thought he knew. He pushed his feelings aside and tried to remain detached, hoping his motives were not revenge but duty. He understood now why Johnny had referred to them as “targets”. It depersonalized what they were about to do, for regardless of what Clement thought, both targets were the enemy, and the location of Coleshill had to remain secret. That was what he had signed on to do; to defend and, if necessary, to die to protect his country f
rom Nazi aggression.

  ‘Sergeant, would you inform the local Home Guard of our activities tonight? It is better that they know and stay away,’ Morris said.

  The Sergeant made an entry in his note book.

  ‘Where do you think Haswell is hiding?’ Clement asked.

  ‘You are our Rye expert, Clement. Where would you go?’ Morris asked.

  Clement stared at the map of the streets he knew so well. ‘I do not believe he would be close to The Standard in case Jane was picked up. But I do believe he could be somewhere where he could see her departure. Will they walk to Winchelsea Beach?’

  ‘I think it likely,’ Morris said. ‘If not, they would have to steal a car or motorcycle which would be too noisy and too great a risk of there being no petrol in it.’

  ‘And they cannot afford to miss the rendezvous,’ Clement added, almost to himself. ‘It is my opinion that they will leave Rye separately and join up once away from the town.’ He stared at the map. In his mind, he walked the streets, the waterfront and the Winchelsea Road. He studied the perimeter of the town, especially on the seaward side.

  The view from Ypres Tower spanned more than two hundred and seventy degrees across the surrounding environs and more than one hundred and eighty degrees across the harbour, but at night the shifting sands were too dangerous for anyone not familiar with them. Besides, the local Home Guard had a post in Ypres Tower and at the foot of Watchbell Steps on the eastern end of the Strand Quay.

  Watchbell Steps. ‘Of course,’ Clement muttered. They led from Watchbell Street down the steep escarpment to the

  waterfront. He also knew of the tunnels that connected the houses of Watchbell Street with the infamous smugglers haunt, The Mermaid Inn, in Mermaid Street at the end of which was the lane known as The Mint.