The Leader

by Guy Walters

  And there he waited, for what could have been hours, until Alec landed in a hyperventilating heap next to him. He watched glassily as the outline of the Tower slipped into the darkness, and looked up in wonder as they rowed under the darkly menacing span of Tower Bridge. He thought he heard a siren in the distance, but before he could be sure, he passed out.

  * * *

  Armstrong and Alec’s escape had sent the Leader into a fury that not even his wife could calm. Lady Mosley had confided in her sister Unity, telling her that she was worried about him, that she had never seen him so angry. Unity’s somewhat useless advice was that all great leaders were men of passion, and Diana should allow her husband to give full vent to his anger. The country needed him to be angry, she said; after all there was a lot to be angry about, especially those wretched Jews.

  Mosley’s first act on hearing of the escape was to have Ousby arrest the entire staff of the Tower of London. There had to be a traitor amongst them, he said, and Ousby’s men were the ones to find him. Ousby was to use any methods that he saw fit, although it would be preferable if nobody actually died under interrogation, at least not yet.

  The Leader summoned Ousby to an Emergency Cabinet meeting a few days later. As usual, Francis Hawkins, Raven Thomson, Fuller and Joyce were all wearing full Blackshirt uniform.

  ‘So then, Sir Roger, what news?’ Mosley asked, drumming his fingers upon the highly polished table.

  Ousby looked calmly at his notes.

  ‘We appear to have had a breakthrough,’ he said. ‘As we suspected, they did have help on the inside.’

  The room erupted into hubbub as the four other members of the Cabinet began to speak as one.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The senior prison warder no less. Man by the name of Michael Martin. It seems he is some sort of crypto-Communist and felt sympathy for Armstrong.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  Ousby looked through his notes once more.

  ‘I can read you some of his confession if you like,’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Ousby cleared his throat before beginning.

  ‘“My name is Michael Charles Martin of 75 Stanley Grove, Battersea. I am the senior prison warder at the Tower of London. On the night of the seventeenth of September 1937 I assisted in the escape of the prisoners James Armstrong MP and Alec Scott from the Tower. I did this because I have much sympathy with Captain Armstrong and I am against the Government . . .”’

  ‘Is he, by Jove?’ said Mosley.

  ‘“. . . and all that the fascist regime stands for. My uncle is Jewish . . .”’

  ‘Name?’ Mosley barked.

  Ousby flicked through his notes.

  ‘Yes, sir – a Mr Isaiah Willimsky of 97 Dalston Road, London.’

  ‘Francis Hawkins,’ said Mosley, ‘make sure he’s on your lists. I don’t want any of these people wriggling out of the round-up.’

  ‘Yes, Leader,’ said Francis Hawkins, jotting down the man’s name.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Roger, please continue.’

  ‘“My uncle is Jewish, and I think what the Government is doing to the good Jewish people . . .”’

  Ousby was unable to continue as the room was suddenly filled with laughter.

  ‘Good Jewish people!’ William Joyce exclaimed. ‘That’s reason enough to hang him!’

  ‘Who are these people, men like this Martin?’ Mosley asked. ‘Where do they come from? They’ve got no sense of reality whatsoever. I almost feel sorry for them. Carry on, Sir Roger.’

  ‘“. . . to the good Jewish people is despicable and should be stopped. When Captain Armstrong arrived at the Tower I resolved that I would do all I could to help him. On the night of the escape I left his cell door unlocked along with some instructions that told him how to get out. I also left him a length of rope, which I indicated he should tie on to one of the cannons near the Cradle Tower in order to let himself down. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting for him to escape, which I take it he did, otherwise you would not have arrested us all. I would also like to add that I am proud of what I did and I hope Captain Armstrong succeeds in whatever it is he is trying to achieve.”’

  There was a silence as the Cabinet chewed over Martin’s words.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Mosley.

  Ousby nodded.

  ‘More or less,’ he replied. ‘He goes into detail, but that is the essential part of it.’

  ‘And this confession is reliable, is it, Sir Roger? I mean he’s not just saying all this because he wants one of your boys to stop hitting him.’

  ‘I’m quite sure he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said the Leader pensively. ‘And this man Martin had no other help? No one on the outside whom Armstrong was to meet?’

  Sir Roger shook his head.

  ‘He would have told us if there was.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ asked General Fuller.

  ‘The questioning was very . . . thorough,’ Ousby replied.

  ‘So this chap Martin did the whole thing off his own bat, did he?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Ousby, his tone a little exasperated.

  ‘Pretty risky stuff, I’d say.’

  ‘What are you trying to insinuate, General?’

  ‘I’m not trying to insinuate anything – I’ll say it straight: I don’t buy it.’

  Ousby tilted his head to one side.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you think like that. If you prefer, I could come back with a new story that might fit in with what you believe to be the truth–’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Mosley interrupted. ‘Enough of this! I’m quite satisfied with this man Martin’s confession.’

  The General looked crestfallen. Ousby remained impassive, inscrutable. The Leader turned to his Home Secretary.

  ‘Francis Hawkins, I’d like to have this man executed as soon as possible.’

  Francis Hawkins nodded and made a note.

  ‘And another thing,’ Mosley continued. ‘How do you mean to do it?’

  ‘Sorry, Leader?’

  ‘How do you mean to execute him?’

  ‘Well . . . I thought we’d hang him.’

  The Leader shook his head playfully.

  ‘No, no, no, no. Far too boring! I thought we should bring back the axe.’

  ‘The axe, Leader?’

  ‘That’s right! Herr Hitler was telling me only the other day that he has brought it back over there. It’s been quite a good deterrent apparently.’

  Francis Hawkins made another note.

  ‘Perhaps you could find an antique one,’ said Mosley. ‘There must be a few kicking around. Let’s get them back into use – the people will love it! A sense of history!’

  ‘Can we publicise this?’ asked William Joyce.

  Mosley paused.

  ‘Well, we’re keeping Armstrong’s escape secret, so it’ll be difficult to . . . No, just make something up. Say he’s a rapist or he murdered someone – something suitably vile, enough to make people think he deserves it.’

  ‘And the SBC?’ asked Joyce. ‘Can they film it?’

  Mosley nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although I think not for public broadcast, don’t you?’

  Joyce smiled.

  Mosley clapped his hands together.

  ‘Good! I’m glad I remembered that! Now, Armstrong. I want all policemen – of both varieties – on this. In this instance I don’t give a stuff about the law, so they can do what they like to find him. I want every lead examined, no matter how small. I want more random searches, more roadblocks, more barriers, more everything! But what I don’t want is a word in the press about it. We shall look like fools if people know that Armstrong has managed to escape twice. They’ll end up thinking he’s some latter-day Robin Hood, and that’s not going to happen. If any policeman breathes a word about this, he can expect to be locked up for the best part of twenty years for sedition. Got that? Good. I also want security a
round us to be doubled – Armstrong is clearly a lunatic and God knows what he might try.’

  Francis Hawkins made another note. Sir Roger sat quite still. It looked as though he had got away with it. If the General had caused him any more grief, he would have set him up with a boy. Not that the General liked boys, but then who cared about the truth these days?

  * * *

  There was no news of the escape, which came as little surprise. The SBC merely announced its quotidian digest of vastly improved production statistics and reports that the Jewish population would soon be relocated for its own safety. If any Jews did not wish to participate in the process, they would be imprisoned – the Leader regarded this an essential measure to ensure compliance. Both Action and The Blackshirt concentrated on the Jewish story, and there was no mention of any disturbances whatsoever at the Tower of London. Instead, both papers looked forward to the Coronation of King Edward and Queen Wallis, which would take place on 12 October. Both Hitler and Mussolini were due to attend, which, gushed Action, should make the event the largest gathering of the New European Order ever to take place.

  Armstrong spent the best part of a week recovering. Lucy had procured the services of a trustworthy doctor, who visited the fugitives as they lay in an upstairs bedroom of a dilapidated Georgian terraced house in Shoreditch. Many of Armstrong’s wounds were seeping pus and blood, and they had to be cleaned and dressed frequently. Ted was there constantly, although Armstrong had told Alec that he was not ready to confront him until he was fully fit. It was an awkward few days, and there was many an occasion on which Armstrong came near to venting his feelings. He and Alec had agreed not to reveal to the others their suspicions regarding Ted’s letter. Far better, Armstrong maintained, not to risk a change in behaviour by someone like Nick that would alert Ted to their being on to him.

  * * *

  ‘So why did you do it, Ted?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Betray us,’ said Armstrong flatly.

  Ted looked back at him, his eyes wide with consternation.

  ‘What’s all this, James? Is it April the first or something?’

  Armstrong didn’t respond. He was sitting in the safe-house alone with Ted – he had insisted that the others leave him to deal with Ted in his own way.

  ‘James, is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘No joke.’

  Ted took a cigarette out of a packet of Black Cap and lit it with a shaking hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, James, I’m really not with you.’

  ‘An unfortunate way of putting it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you’re not with us. You’re with them, aren’t you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Could you please explain what you’re talking about? I don’t take very kindly to being accused of being a traitor, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’

  ‘What have they got on you? Is it your daughter? Or Bridget? Or is it just for the money? You’re always complaining about money, so perhaps it’s that, just pounds, shillings and pence.’

  Ted shook his head. His expression, thought Armstrong, was almost one of genuine disbelief.

  ‘You’re a good actor,’ said Armstrong, ‘I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Look, James,’ Ted replied, ‘whatever it is you’re accusing me of, you’re wrong. I don’t know what happened to you in prison, but they’ve played with your mind, can’t you see that?’

  It was Armstrong’s turn to shake his head.

  ‘No one’s been playing with my mind,’ he said, ‘except perhaps you. I know all about it, Ted, all about how you and Sir Roger Ousby are working for the Russians, using my network to take control. I even know that he’s the one called Top Hat, and that you’re Dog, which somehow seems apt. It was you who set me up at Claridge’s – don’t deny it! And you only managed to get Alec and me out of the Tower because Ousby organised the whole bloody thing.’

  Ted inhaled deeply on the Black Cap. Armstrong felt in his coat pocket for the revolver Nick had given him earlier that day. It looked as though it was about to see some use. Ted took another long drag before speaking.

  ‘So what now?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to kill me? Well if you do, you’ll have killed an innocent man.’

  ‘I would have thought the honourable thing would be to do it yourself.’

  ‘Honourable. That’s rich. You’re only saying it because you don’t have the balls to kill me yourself.’

  Armstrong calmly took the revolver out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ he said quietly.

  Ted took a final draw on his cigarette before stubbing it out.

  ‘All I know, James, is that I’m not your traitor. I don’t know why you’re accusing me. I can see why you think Ousby might be Top Hat, but whoever Dog is, it certainly isn’t me.’

  Armstrong folded his arms.

  ‘Who else would it be if it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Any number of people – Nick, Lucy, Martin, even Mrs bloody Craven for all I know.’

  ‘You know, none of those names really convinces me.’

  Silence. Ted reached for another cigarette.

  ‘All I want to know,’ said Armstrong, ‘is why.’

  Ted held the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

  ‘For God’s sake, James! There is no “why”! I’ve done nothing but help you, stick my neck out, risk my life and my family’s, and this is what I get. False accusations. Guns pointed at me. It’s madness that you think I’m some sort of Soviet spy; it’s preposterous!’

  Armstrong picked up the revolver. He wasn’t prepared to listen to any more of Ted’s protestations.

  ‘James! Please! You must believe me. I’m not a traitor!’

  Armstrong pulled back the hammer with his thumb. He didn’t want to do this, but he knew that he had to. Ted had been willing to see him die, and the bullet he was about to receive would be the most fitting penalty.

  ‘James!’

  Ted was almost shrieking now.

  ‘I can’t believe you had the gall to call yourself my friend.’

  ‘Wh . . . what?’

  ‘You know full well,’ said Armstrong. ‘In your letter.’

  ‘Letter?’

  ‘That’s right, Ted, your letter, the one you managed to get smuggled into the Tower.’

  ‘I never wrote you any letter.’

  ‘Yes you did – you can’t deny that as well!’

  ‘Honest to God, James! I never wrote you a letter! You were the one who wrote the letter!’

  Armstrong raised the gun.

  Afterwards, he put Ted in the back of Allen’s Bentley and drove him over to the Royal Victoria Dock. He watched as the car disappeared gently into the oil-stained water, then turned and walked away.

  Lucy, Alec and Nick returned a few hours later to find Armstrong sitting on his own.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Alec.

  Armstrong looked at them coldly. His eyes told them what they needed to know. As if to reinforce their message, Armstrong nodded slowly.

  ‘Really?’ Alec asked.

  Armstrong looked at his old friend.

  ‘Yes, Alec – really.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Alec, ‘but did he – did he confess?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Armstrong. ‘Said he was innocent right to the end.’

  ‘So where is he?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘In hell, I hope.’

  ‘His body, I mean.’

  ‘In the boot of Allen’s Bentley, which is now at the bottom of a dock.’

  The group stood silent for a while.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Nick.

  ‘We carry on,’ said Armstrong, clapping his hands. ‘Now that Frost is out of the way, Ousby has no way of monitoring our movements. Nick and Martin, how are your opposition cells?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘They’re all in place,’ he said, ‘ready for the word.’

  ‘Good,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m goi
ng to contact Galwey and Clifford and try to establish if our network is still in place. And Alec, I’d like to talk to you about the Earl Marshal.’

  At first they thought he was delirious.

  ‘The Earl Marshal?’ asked Alec.

  ‘The Earl Marshal,’ Armstrong repeated. ‘He’s the man who arranges all royal ceremonies . . .’

  ‘All right,’ said Alec.

  ‘. . . including of course the Coronation. If we are to gain access to the Abbey then we’ll need the help of the Earl Marshal.’

  ‘But how?’ said Lucy. ‘We can’t just give him a ring and ask for a couple of tickets.’

  Armstrong allowed himself a faint smile.

  ‘We don’t really want to go to the Coronation itself,’ he said. ‘But it’s vital that we get into the Abbey the night before. For that, we’ll need a pass indicating that we’re officials of some sort, or perhaps workmen. Ideally, I’d like to be able to get inside the Abbey even sooner, in order to scout around. I haven’t been there in a while.’

  ‘How about as foreign dignitaries?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Explain,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Well, there are going to be hundreds – thousands – of visitors from all over the world,’ said Alec. ‘Perhaps you could disguise yourself as one of them.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t get us into the Abbey itself. Besides, I’m not sure that I fancy dressing up as a mad crown prince from an obscure Balkan state,’ said Armstrong. ‘It just seems too absurd. Bit too Gilbert and Sullivan for me.’

  ‘I thought you liked Gilbert and Sullivan,’ said Alec.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Armstrong replied. ‘I can’t stick them. Why those two got knighted God only knows.’

  ‘Touched a nerve there,’ said Nick.

  ‘Well it’s nice to see that not all Tories like bourgeois culture,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Aha, the voice of the true Bolshevik!’ said Alec.

  ‘All right, all right, back to business,’ said Armstrong. ‘Alec, I need you to find out who works in the Earl Marshal’s office. There must be someone there who is sympathetic. Get me a list of names – we should be able to identify someone useful. This person will also need to supply us with a seating plan. I don’t want our bomb to go off under a load of bishops. Lucy and Nick, I need you to scout around the Abbey. I want you to pose as tourists and see if you can just wander in. Normally you can, but I expect they’ve tightened things up. If you can’t get in, tell me what sort of people are – it may give us an idea what identity we can adopt. Got that?’