The Leader

by Guy Walters

  The others nodded. They could see in Armstrong’s eyes that he was being deadly serious, and were surprised at how quickly he had snapped away from banter and back into the role of leader.

  ‘How do you suggest I go about finding these names?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Actually, Lucy’s idea of simply ringing up is not a bad one,’ said Armstrong. ‘Say you’re calling from The Blackshirt or Action, and that you’re writing an article about how plans for the Coronation are going. That should do the trick.’

  Alec came back with a list of names later that afternoon.

  ‘Well, it seems that there are six people working for the Earl Marshal,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Armstrong.

  Alec passed him a sheet of paper, down which Armstrong scanned. The names were as expected – carrying either titles or senior ranks in the armed forces, or both.

  Air Marshal Sir Richard Taylor

  Lord Wilson of Canworthy

  General Sir Peter Jackson VC

  Sir James Owen MP

  Brigadier-General William Wynne

  Lord Oliver Fowlston

  ‘Pretty predictable bunch,’ said Armstrong, ‘and all fascists to boot – especially Owen. He’s one of Mosley’s court favourites, a really nasty piece of work.’

  He tossed the paper down in resignation. He would have to think of something else.

  ‘They’re not all fascists, are they?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Looks like it to me – these are types who’d probably sell their own mothers before doing anything to hurt the Leader.’

  ‘What about Wilson?’

  ‘Wilson?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s a fascist,’ said Alec. ‘I remember him from the Olympics – he was one of those who refused to salute.’

  ‘The Olympics? He’d have been far too old.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t an athlete, but he was on the Committee. He was a nice chap, I remember, a good sort.’

  ‘And now he’s helping to arrange the Coronation of the man who got us into this mess,’ said Armstrong. ‘He hardly sounds reliable, Alec!’

  Alec raised his hands.

  ‘Sorry, James! It’s not my fault.’

  Armstrong sat back.

  ‘No, I’m the one who should apologise. What else do you know about Wilson?’

  ‘Tall,’ said Alec, ‘a magnificent moustache, straight back. I remember something about his first wife dying in the flu epidemic.’

  Another widower, thought Armstrong. He sometimes felt that being deprived of a wife put you into some sort of club.

  ‘Did he marry again?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he did. I remember some talk about it happening rather soon after.’

  Armstrong raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps number two was waiting in the wings,’ said Alec. ‘Happens a lot.’

  ‘Not with me it didn’t,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Come on, James,’ said Alec. ‘He wouldn’t be the first man to have immediately hopped on to a new mount.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Anyway, it’s not important. Do you think we can trust him?’

  Alec shrugged.

  ‘I’d say it’s worth a try.’

  * * *

  They arrived at the same time every week – Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock – delivered by a car from the German Embassy. Seventeen carnations, of every conceivable colour that could be found. The footman would take them up to Queen Wallis’s apartments as soon as they arrived – she had once been apoplectic when they had not been delivered to her after two hours.

  ‘Goddammit,’ she had bawled. ‘My flowers used to arrive quicker when I was living in Dolphin Square!’

  She had wanted to dismiss the footman who had brought them on that occasion, but the King had told her meekly that maybe that wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t the poor chap’s fault. Anyway, why did von Ribbentrop send these blasted carnations to her in the first place? Such cheap little things! The Queen told him that it was a private joke, nothing important. Her David had then got jealous, and told her that she shouldn’t accept flowers from other men, that it was not the queenly thing to do. Wallis told her husband that whatever she did as Queen was by definition queenly – a ridiculous word anyway – and if that involved accepting a bunch of simple flowers once a week from the ambassador of Britain’s closest ally, then so be it.

  That Wednesday afternoon proved to be no exception. The carnations arrived at precisely three o’clock, delivered by the same flunkey in the same car, a large midnight-blue Mercedes. They were whisked up to the Queen’s apartments, where they were then handed over to her attractive lady-in-waiting, Lady Katherine Massey, who viewed them with some suspicion, knowing full well from whom they came.

  Lady Katherine knocked on the door of the Queen’s drawing room, which was immediately opened by the Queen herself. Lady Katherine suspected that the Queen had been standing right next to it, as though she had actually been lingering there for her weekly carnations.

  ‘Thank you, Katherine,’ said Queen Wallis, who waited for her lady-in-waiting to curtsey before shutting the door on her.

  The Queen took a deep sniff. The carnations smelt divine as usual – Joachim had once told her he had them specially flown over once a week from the finest grower in Germany. She took them out of their wrapping paper, and placed them one by one into a crystal vase which she had already had filled with water. They looked fine, mighty fine, she thought. She’d give him a call later, perhaps even see if he was free to drop by. He was normally only too ready.

  Chapter Twelve

  Idiots

  MICHAEL CHARLES MARTIN of 75 Stanley Grove, London SW protested his innocence all the way through his two-day trial at the Old Bailey. However, the evidence was incontrovertible, and the jury had no choice but to return a guilty verdict for the rape and murder of a Miss Eileen Denman of 176 Queenstown Road, London SW. The judge, Lord Justice Matthew Upton, donned his black cap and sentenced the accused to the maximum penalty the law allowed.

  As Martin was led away, he screamed out, telling the court that the whole thing had been set up by ‘dark powers’, and that he was the innocent victim of some far greater conspiracy. That outburst was not reported in the pages of Action or The Blackshirt, although the SBC noted towards the end of a sensational report that Mr Martin had subjected the court to ‘a lunatic raving that was the stuff of such nonsense that some members of the public gallery burst out into a hearty laughter’.

  Martin was denied an appeal, and spent his last few days in Wandsworth Prison writing to every person he thought might be able to help, including the King. He had no idea, he wrote, why this was happening to him. Why had he, a simple groundsman at the Tower of London, been framed for a deed that he did not commit? Why had the court refused to believe his alibi? Martin suspected, he wrote, that poor Miss Denman had been killed by somebody the ‘dark powers’ were trying to protect, and that he was the ‘scapegoat’.

  Naturally, he received no replies. In fact, his letters were never even posted, but handed over to the HMSSP. His only visitor was a priest, who saw him on the morning of his execution. Until that point, Martin had always claimed he had no religion, but that morning he prayed as hard as the most devoted of believers. Those prayers were interrupted by the swift entrance of two prison warders, both of whom were wearing fascist armbands. Without any apology to the priest, they bound Martin’s hands tightly behind his back and placed a blindfold over his head.

  He was bundled out of his cell and led to the place of his execution. He stayed silent, too petrified to scream or shout. This wasn’t happening, he told himself, this was some sort of mistake, a trick, something like that.

  A blow to the back of his knees forced him to fall to the floor. He then found himself being lifted up into a kneeling position, and bent over a low wooden block. Was this how he was going to be hanged; was this how they put on the rope?

  Martin only started scream
ing when he felt a sudden coldness on the back of his neck. It wasn’t a rope, but something metallic, something sharp. And then he knew what it was, knew how he was going to die. What he had felt was the cold edge of an axe, an edge that the executioner had briefly touched upon the condemned man’s neck as he lined up his swing.

  ‘No!’ screamed Martin. ‘No!’

  He heard a grunt coming from behind him and then heard nothing. His scream, along with his consciousness, continued after his head had left his body. For two seconds, while there was still oxygen in his brain, Michael Martin was aware of the fact that he had been beheaded.

  * * *

  Otto is beaming.

  ‘Well done, Tony!’ he says, and pats Tony on the back. Tony is not used to being patted on the back – he finds the gesture condescending – so he flinches slightly.

  ‘It worked brilliantly!’ Otto continues. ‘And just as we thought, not a word in the papers.’

  ‘Well, the regime has never been keen to publicise its failures.’

  The comment causes Otto’s face to darken momentarily, but he is soon back to his irrepressible self.

  ‘And our canine friend?’ he asks. ‘What news of him?’

  Tony takes a sip of whisky.

  ‘He’s in place,’ says Tony. ‘Well and truly embedded. There are a few things he needs, so I’m helping him with those, but otherwise he tells me everything is on target.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘People, mostly.’

  ‘All right,’ says Otto, crossing his legs. ‘But after these people have served their purpose . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ says Tony.

  ‘Even Allen’s wife?’

  Tony looks at his watch.

  ‘She’ll be found dead in her bedroom tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Naturally,’ says Tony, and drains his glass. ‘Although it was very kind of her to inform on her husband like that.’

  * * *

  Mosley had allowed the gentlemen’s clubs of St James’s to stay open, although much to their secretaries’ chagrin, the HMSSP had procured the membership lists and filleted out any members the regime deemed ‘unreliable’ or likely to use the clubs to foment resistance. The same process had also been applied to working men’s clubs, which the regime regarded as breeding grounds for the evils of Bolshevism and trade unionism. The predictable result of this purge was that many clubs found themselves facing financial ruin, and had either to close or to merge with others.

  One club that had managed to survive was Pooter’s, not least because it had taken on the last few members of the Carlton Club and the Reform. Many of the members of those two clubs were currently residing in internment camps – ‘The best clubs for them,’ the Leader had once joked. But Pooter’s, being a relatively non-political place, was, in its secretary’s words, ‘in good shape’, and was even prospering.

  Armstrong and Alec found themselves sitting outside Pooter’s one wet afternoon in a Morris Cowley borrowed from an obliging friend of Martin. The man they were waiting for was having lunch, and so far that lunch had gone on for two and a half hours. Despite the rain, and the fact that he was sitting in a car, Armstrong felt exposed and vulnerable. He had brought Nick’s revolver with him, which he was cradling in his lap.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Alec, breaking the silence. ‘It’s already quarter to four. How long is our noble lord going to be?’

  ‘He’s probably having his afternoon nap in the library,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘And then he’ll wake up at six, just in time for a drink.’

  Armstrong smiled. Wilson – or more properly, Lord Canworthy – was evidently at that stage in life in which each day was little more than one long meal. Armstrong looked through the windscreen as the smile slowly left his face. He was glad it was wet – passing policemen were keeping their heads down, and there was little chance he would be spotted inside a fogged-up car. He could have stayed at the safe-house, as Alec had wanted him to, but he needed to come along, had to establish whether Wilson was a man he could trust. Lucy and Nick had attempted to get into the Abbey the day before, but they had reported back with the not unexpected information that nobody was allowed in without some form of pass. It was Lucy who suggested that their best bet was to pose as architectural restorers – an idea Armstrong had immediately warmed to.

  Wilson eventually left the club at half past four. He was as tall as Alec had remembered, and his stiff bearing was distinctly military, as was his magnificent moustache.

  ‘That’s him!’ said Alec.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Alec, opening his door. ‘All right – wish me luck.’

  ‘Bonne chance,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Merci.’

  Armstrong wiped the windscreen and watched Alec hurry across the road. He would have liked to be the one making the approach, but he knew it would be foolhardy to walk down a street where there was a strong chance somebody might recognise him. He held his breath as he saw Alec walk up behind his prey, and only let it out when he saw the two men starting to talk.

  The rain and the failing light made it hard to discern Wilson’s expression, but Alec was certainly holding his attention.

  ‘Come on, Alec,’ Armstrong found himself whispering.

  Alec seemed to be talking for an age. What was he saying? Perhaps the lord really was drunk, and had no idea what was going on. Or maybe he was as confused as anybody would be in such a situation. After another minute had passed, Armstrong was desperate to get out of the car. Alec seemed to be making no progress, and Wilson’s demeanour suggested that he wanted to walk away.

  Whatever Alec said next, however, obviously worked, because the two men started to walk towards the car. They waited for a bus to pass, and then crossed the road, Alec’s hand gently pressed against Wilson’s back, as if to steer him in the right direction. Alec opened the rear passenger door, and Wilson stepped in, accompanied by a waft of cold damp air.

  Armstrong was tempted to turn round to face him, but he had no wish for Wilson to catch a glimpse of his face.

  ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this.’

  Wilson merely shrugged. Alec got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Armstrong, ‘whether I could interest you in a proposition?’

  Wilson shrugged again and gave a half-grunt.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, looking out of his window.

  There was something reluctant in his manner, Armstrong thought, but at the same time he sounded weary – not post-prandially weary, but slightly resigned, as if he had been expecting something like this to happen.

  Fifteen minutes later, Alec started the engine and pulled away, driving north up St James’s Street. The conversation with Wilson had gone well, and he had impressed both of them with his anti-fascist convictions, even calling Mosley an ‘odious fucker’. Armstrong did not tell Wilson exactly what he was planning, but he had secured his agreement to supply them with a seating plan and an order of service, as well as credentials in the names of ‘Philip Howard’ and ‘Elizabeth Ball’, which would identify Armstrong and Lucy as architectural restorers. Before Wilson had stepped out of the car, Armstrong reminded him that he wished to pick up the documents tomorrow morning from the porter at the club, and that Wilson was not to tell anybody – not even his wife – about this conversation.

  The traffic light changed to green and Alec turned left and made his way down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park Corner. They drove past the Ritz, which Armstrong noticed had put fascist symbols in its windows. A few Blackshirts – evidently patrician sorts, wearing the full Action Press uniform – were walking briskly towards the hotel’s entrance, clearly on their way to a meeting. Even the doorman was wearing a fascist armband, and saluted as the men entered the hotel.

  Alec accelerated, and soon the railings that marked the northern perimeter of Green Park were flicker
ing past. Armstrong looked at his watch – it was five o’clock. Suddenly Alec spoke.

  ‘Shit!’

  Armstrong looked up. About fifty yards ahead, just before Hyde Park Corner, was a roadblock.

  ‘Turn right!’ he barked.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Turn right!’

  Alec wrenched the wheel clockwise and veered violently into the path of an approaching double-decker bus. For a second, Armstrong thought they were going to be hit, but a combination of Alec’s acceleration and the bus driver’s quick application of the brakes meant that they narrowly missed a collision that would certainly have been fatal. They sped up the narrow Half Moon Street, the sound of the bus’s horn in their ears.

  ‘Slow down!’ said Armstrong, who had no wish to attract any further attention.

  Alec did so.

  ‘Now what?’ he said. ‘We can’t just drive around hoping not to run into any more roadblocks.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Armstrong. ‘Let’s get rid of the car. We can walk back through the park – it’s getting dark enough.’

  The sound of a rapidly approaching bell debunked that idea. Armstrong felt his heart start to thud once more. He turned round to see a police car bearing down on them.

  ‘Idiots!’ Alec hissed, putting his foot down.

  ‘Do you think we can outrun them?’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a try,’ said Alec, taking a sharp left on to Curzon Street. After a few yards he turned left again, down into Shepherd Market. However, the manoeuvre had not outwitted the police car, the front grille of which was almost touching their rear bumper.

  Armstrong shut his eyes as Alec swung the car round to the right, sending pedestrians jumping for their lives. The Georgian streets of Shepherd Market were not built for cars, and certainly not for cars travelling at speeds such as this. Armstrong felt the back of the car swinging out to the left, and opened his eyes to see Alec struggling to stop the vehicle skidding and smashing side-on into the front of an antiquarian bookshop.