The Leader

by Guy Walters

  Ten minutes later, a figure dressed in bright red vestments approached them. A verger, thought Armstrong, and despite his smile, he looked a right busybody to boot.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the verger, his eyebrows locking together. ‘I must say, it certainly is a surprise to see you here.’

  Armstrong wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Lucy looked up at him, and Armstrong calmly gestured to her that she should carry on with her work.

  ‘A surprise?’ asked Armstrong. ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘It’s just that we’ve had all the gilding looked at last week,’ said the verger, ‘and we’re very happy with it.’

  ‘Really?’ said Armstrong. ‘Well I’m not.’

  The verger looked a little taken aback.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Have a look over here,’ said Armstrong, pointing to the finials he had scraped away at earlier. ‘Now I wouldn’t say they were in great shape, would you?’

  ‘Well, no, but . . .’

  ‘So it’s got to be put right. I don’t know which of your toffs are going to be sitting here, but I doubt they’ll be very impressed when they see how shoddy some of these look.’

  ‘Er, yes, quite, but I’m just a little confused,’ said the verger. ‘When the Dean and I looked at them only the other day, we were both satisfied that they were—’

  ‘Happens to all of us,’ said Armstrong. ‘Even me. Which is why I have such a capable assistant here.’

  Lucy flashed her most charming smile at the verger.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you just can’t see for looking. Mr Howard is always missing things.’

  ‘Not always, my love,’ said Armstrong. ‘I think you’re being just a little harsh on your employer.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Howard.’

  Armstrong grinned at the verger.

  ‘A little cheeky,’ said Armstrong, ‘but very talented.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said the verger. ‘But Mr Skillion himself seemed positive that he had finished the job . . .’

  ‘Mr Skillion just wanted me to patch up a few things. And to be honest, I can quite see why.’

  ‘And where is—’

  ‘His poor ma died the day before yesterday.’

  ‘I see,’ said the verger. ‘I shall say a prayer for her soul – and for him, of course.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ said Armstrong. ‘To have a prayer said in the Abbey itself! The old dear will be delighted!’

  The verger smiled wanly.

  ‘Quite, quite,’ he replied. ‘Tell me, how much longer will this take? The clock is ticking, you know, Mr Howard.’

  Armstrong, thinking of his bomb, almost laughed at the man’s unintentional irony.

  ‘Oh, I’d say another day or two. Perhaps three. You can never quite tell.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Howard, but please remember there is a deadline.’

  Armstrong nodded respectfully.

  ‘I shan’t forget,’ he said.

  ‘One other thing,’ said the verger. ‘How did you manage to gain access to the Abbey this morning?’

  ‘We had passes,’ said Armstrong nonchalantly. ‘Mr Skillion got some for us a while ago, just in case the job was bigger than he thought.’

  The verger seemed satisfied.

  ‘Very well – I shan’t detain you any longer. Good day to you, Mr Howard.’

  Armstrong touched his hand to his cap.

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Within a couple of minutes of the verger leaving, Armstrong had placed the kneeler in his canvas bag. As well as working out how to turn it into a bomb, he reflected, his other technical challenge was learning how to replace the gilding he had worn away.

  * * *

  The offices had lain empty since April. Gone was the chatter of typewriters and the frantic rush of messenger boys. The air was stale, the ghosts of so many cigarettes hanging in the tired atmosphere. Waste-paper baskets had not been emptied, and some desks still carried half-finished mugs of tea and coffee, the contents of which had transformed themselves into thick mats of lurid green fungus. Every so often one of the many large black telephones would ring, slightly shifting its layer of accumulated dust, but it would remain unanswered.

  He walked slowly through the offices with his coat over his arm. It was like being in a coffin, he thought, with the sunlight struggling to pierce through the filthy windows. The hum of Fleet Street’s traffic was barely audible, much quieter than the terrific clanking the printing presses used to make in the basement come the late afternoon.

  This office represented freedom, he thought. From here, a group of two hundred men and women had written what they damn well pleased, offered opinions on subjects people cared about, reported the truth as best they could. It was a funny representation of freedom, this ink-stained warren of distressed tables and wood-wormed chairs, quite unlike the gleaming white marble dome that a lazy imagination might offer as a more fitting home for Freedom.

  He gave the metal wheel a vigorous turn. For a second, the row of shelves didn’t move, but the ratchet soon engaged and the shelves budged. The turns got easier and as they did so the shelves gathered momentum. In fact, he had to use all his strength to stop them bashing into the next row, something he remembered as being near the top of the librarian’s list of sins.

  As he looked along the shelves, he remembered that the list of sins also included the hoarding of cuttings, putting cuttings back in the wrong chronological order, keeping cuttings in one’s desk, and, worst of all, taking cuttings home.

  He walked along the shelves, hunting for the subjects that he needed. After ten minutes he had assembled a large pile of manila folders under his right arm. With a grunt he plonked them down on a large table, then removed his jacket, hung it over the back of the chair, rolled up his sleeves and sat down. He lit a cigarette, another librarian’s no-no, and took out the cuttings from the first folder. Somewhere in here, he thought, he would find what he needed.

  * * *

  ‘Not again,’ said Lucy.

  It was the afternoon of the day after they had visited the Abbey, and Armstrong and Lucy were sitting round the brazier in the warehouse. Armstrong hated to ask her to use her body once more, but he had little choice.

  ‘I don’t deny that it’s distasteful,’ he said, ‘but it’s vitally important.’

  ‘What’s so special about this man?’

  ‘He’s the one who knows everything,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Knows what exactly?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you – at least not yet. You’ll just have to trust me, I’m afraid.’

  Lucy narrowed her eyes.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ she said. ‘If you want me to do this, I’d rather you had the decency to let me know why.’

  Armstrong stoked the brazier with a long piece of timber. The action released a wild shower of orange sparks into the air. Lucy had a point – she always did – but it was hard to impress upon her what was so important about this man without revealing his deeper suspicions, suspicions that he was not willing to share, not even with her.

  ‘The answer is no,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to tell you.’

  Lucy folded her arms.

  ‘In that case, I refuse.’

  ‘That is your prerogative,’ said Armstrong.

  Lucy’s ensuing sigh signalled a long silence. Armstrong knew that she was waiting for him to break, waiting for him to blurt it out, but he was not going to be drawn.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you could at least tell me how important it is.’

  ‘As opposed to how it is important?’

  Lucy almost grinned.

  ‘Typical politician,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I thought you were a soldier, not a lawyer.’

  ‘Soldiers have to be precise too.’

  ‘All right, all right – yes! How important is it?’

  Armstrong sent another shower of sparks into the air before looki
ng directly at her.

  ‘It couldn’t be more important. I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘You seem to be staking mine on it.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ said Armstrong. ‘I am staking your life on it. In fact, I am staking all our lives on it. After you have gone through with this, then I shall tell you, and I shall also tell the others.’

  ‘You promise that?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Lucy stood up, her arms still folded.

  ‘When?’ she said. ‘And how?’

  * * *

  Lieutenant-Colonel Huw Merriman had always been a light sleeper, but tonight he was dozing even more fitfully than usual. Although he had been waiting for the orders for months, nothing could have prepared him for how he would feel now that they were actually here. The signal from General Galwey, sent from Major-General Clifford’s headquarters, had arrived just before six o’clock that afternoon, informing him that he was to assemble his battalion on Coronation Day exactly as he had already been ordered. Furthermore, the signal continued, his men were to be in a full state of readiness. Merriman knew exactly what that meant – they were to be armed, which was unusual for troops who were to perform mere ceremonial duties outside Westminster Abbey. But Merriman’s battalion was to do more than shine in the sun; its real role was to assist Captain Armstrong and General Galwey in arresting leaders of the regime inside the Abbey after Mosley had been killed.

  Merriman was not so much nervous for himself; rather for his men. He would be leading them down a path that some might regard as treacherous, and worse, that might get many – or all of them – killed. It was fair enough to risk his own life, but could he really play with others’ in this way?

  He turned over. The night was strangely warm, and he threw off his bedclothes. He had to do what he thought was right, not merely what he was ordered to do. This was no time for the time-stained soldier’s excuse – ‘I was only following orders.’ He hated Mosley, hated what the fascists had done to the country, and yet there was something in him that rebelled against taking action like this.

  Merriman turned on his bedside lamp and looked at his alarm clock. Twenty to three. He would be up in just under three hours. Come on, man, get some sleep. Of course what you’re doing is right, no doubt about it. It was his bullish side doing the talking. Well, he thought as he turned off the lamp, it had never let him down yet. There was no point ignoring it now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nail Cutting

  THE LEADER HAD no desire to be seen meddling with the arrangements for the Coronation, but on one matter he was absolutely insistent The ceremony, he told the King and Queen, should not only be a showcase for Britain and her Empire, it should also mark the complete synthesis of fascism with the British state. Therefore fascist banners should hang alongside the Union flags within the Abbey, and all those present should wear Party armbands. The King and Queen agreed, although the King said there was little room for armbands amongst his Coronation robes, and therefore it would be better if he wore a decoration bearing the lightning flash. The Leader accepted this, and then went on to ask for just one more slight change, involving one of the oaths the King was to swear. At present, the oath in question read, ‘Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, and of your Possessions and other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs?’

  It was the Leader’s wish that the words ‘their respective’ be changed to ‘fascist’. The King was not sure, and told the Leader that he would need to seek counsel. The Leader, mindful that there were still courtiers in the Palace whose political allegiances were suspect, strongly advised the King that it was for him alone to make up his mind on this important issue. Queen Wallis agreed, and with pressure coming from both his wife and Mosley, the King relented. He had always thought fascism was the future, he told them, and here was his chance to show his peoples that it was the creed by which he would govern. The Leader said he could not have put it better himself, although privately he wished for the word ‘govern’ to be taken out of the oath and replaced with ‘serve’.

  * * *

  ‘It’s so simple,’ said Alec, ‘that it should work a treat.’

  ‘Lucy and Nick?’ Armstrong asked. ‘How about you?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘You’re quite sure he’s actually going to be kneel on it, are you?’ said Lucy.

  ‘This isn’t Sunday service in some dozy village,’ said Armstrong. ‘Believe you me, people kneel at coronations, especially if they’re in the front row and especially if they happen to be prime ministers, or in this case, Leaders.’

  ‘And let’s get this right,’ said Lucy. ‘As soon as he kneels on it, the bomb goes off. Yes?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Armstrong replied. ‘The pressure of his weight will simply complete the fuse’s electrical circuit, and voilà! The end of our dear Leader.’

  ‘And do we know when Mosley will use it for the first time?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I think you mean the only time,’ said Armstrong.

  They all laughed.

  ‘Judging by the order of service, I’d say about twenty minutes in,’ said Armstrong. ‘Maybe slightly less. That’ll mean it should go off at about twenty past eleven.’

  ‘Will the King be crowned by then?’ Alec asked.

  ‘No,’ said Armstrong emphatically. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned is another bonus. The congregation first kneels after the introit at the beginning of the communion service. The choir sings a few lines from Psalm Eighty-four and then the Archbishop—’

  ‘What are the lines?’ said Lucy.

  Armstrong referred to the order of service supplied by Wilson.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘“Behold, O God our defender, and look upon the face of thine Anointed. For one day in thy courts is better than a thousand.” Well, I don’t think Mosley is going to get even a minute in those courts.’

  More laughter.

  ‘And do you think you can actually make this bomb?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I can,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s a simple case of embedding the mechanism in the stuffing. The one thing I’ll need help with is some sewing.’

  At that point, Lucy found herself being looked at by three pairs of male eyes.

  ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough working with Tories,’ she said.

  * * *

  Whenever possible, Lord Wilson would motor down to Hampshire to cast a fly into one of the finest stretches of the River Test. Despite the proximity of the Coronation, this weekend was no exception, and Wilson had driven down with his wife and two daughters on Friday night, ready for an early start the following morning. They needed to return to London that evening for a function, and although Lady Wilson had protested that it hardly seemed worth it for herself and the two girls to come down, her husband had insisted, saying that it would do them good to get out of the stale air of the capital.

  Lord Wilson got up just before dawn on Saturday morning, and strode the half-mile down to the banks of the river on his own. He enjoyed the early-morning solitude, and he would wade in to almost the fastest point of the river, from where he could cast straight on to the surface of a dark pool that sheltered beneath the branches of an elder bush. There were rich pickings to be had there, and he would often present the breakfast table with one or two large trout that would constitute that day’s lunch.

  This morning was proving to be less fruitful than usual. It was bright and there was a lack of drizzle, and Wilson suspected that the fish could see him. They had been getting a little wary of late – perhaps he should walk downstream to a pool he hadn’t tried for several days. He reeled the fly back in and turned to make for the bank.

  To his surprise, he saw two figures standing there. Both were tall men in their thirties, and were dressed as he was, in tweed jac
kets and waders. They carried rods and landing nets, although their equipment looked brand new. Wilson also noticed that they appeared lean and fit, and quickly supposed that they were fighting men of some sort.

  ‘Good morning, my lord!’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘We need to talk to you. It’s very important.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is! This is private property. Now bugger off, the pair of you!’

  The two men started wading in towards him.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but we really do have to talk to you.’

  ‘This is most irregular – remove yourselves immediately!’

  Wilson tried lashing out when the two men got close to him, but as he had already noticed, they were in good shape. They were strong, very strong, and although Wilson struggled hard, there was nothing he could do to stop them holding him under the cool dark water.

  He could never of course have seen them as he struggled, but there had indeed been some trout in the pool, which darted away when the commotion started. They came back a few minutes later, when the splashing had ceased, and there they remained for the next two hours, at which point they were disturbed once more, this time by a woman’s scream.

  * * *

  It took Armstrong and Lucy the best part of a day to make the device that would rid the world of Oswald Mosley. Using a similar kneeler swiped from a nearby church, Armstrong first satisfied himself that his design would work. He made his trial bomb without dynamite, and the detonator went off – harmlessly – when he knelt on it.

  The afternoon was a more nerve-racking affair. First Lucy unstitched the kneeler as carefully as possible, removing the side on which a person at prayer would rest his knees. Armstrong took out most of the horsehair and straw, leaving a bed on which the bomb would rest.

  He then wrapped quarter of a pound of dynamite in some greaseproof paper, and inserted an electrical detonator stolen from the barge. Next he attached one of the two wires leading from the detonator to the positive terminal on a nine-volt battery. Another wire was attached to the negative terminal, but so far this led nowhere. Lucy wanted to watch, but Armstrong insisted she stay well away, that there was no point in two of them dying if he made a mistake.