The Sterling Directive

by Tim Standish

  I put the glass plate back into the dish then put the dish into my overcoat pocket and we left. The street was relatively empty, and we joined a few mid-morning strollers as we walked back towards our hotel. We were both, I think, glad to leave Richardson’s sad little rooms behind us. We were a few streets away from the B&B when the first dark blue van shot past, its bells brash and loud in the morning air.

  13. Fox

  We changed at Preston. Church left me to look after the bags while he, suffering from a moderately grave deficiency of tea, went in search of a Lyons amongst the shops and stalls dotted along the length of the central platforms. The people on the platform were a mix of daytime travellers: elderly couples, businessmen, gaggles of small children being corralled with varying degrees of expertise by mothers and nannies. News sellers threaded their way through the crowds in raucous rivalry, seeking readers of staid headlines and shocking sensation alike. In addition, at the end of the platform, a small, watchful group of railway enthusiasts waited. Most carried well-worn notebooks, a few had cameras hanging from their necks, while one of them was carefully adjusting a tripod-mounted kinematographic camera. There was little conversation between them, I noticed. In the main they were silent, waiting with patient attention as they stared down the track, checking their watches, pencils at the ready.

  ‘My dear sir, could you possibly spare a sixpence for a worthy cause?’

  Tugged away from my idle observations, I found myself confronted with an elderly clergyman, beaming away at me across a tray full of miniature flags hanging from a canvas strap around his neck. His black suit had seen better days and dots of breakfast clung here and there to the front of his waistcoat. ‘Disabled soldiers and sailors, sir. Heroes uncared for in the country they gave their all for. The smallest contribution could make a difference,’ he added, lifting a collection box from the tray in my direction and giving me an encouraging smile.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, fishing from my pocket what felt like a sixpence but turned out to be a shilling and dropping it into the box.

  ‘What a kind gentleman you are, but of course I should have known an old soldier wouldn’t ignore the plight of his comrades.’ He saw my slightly puzzled look. ‘Standing at ease,’ he continued, shaking his head with a smile, ‘is one of the hardest habits to leave behind. Please allow me,’ he continued, lifting one of the flags from the tray and leaned in to pin it to the lapel of my coat.

  ‘By the by,’ he said in a low, confidential voice, ‘were you aware that you are being followed?’ Then, more loudly, the shakiness of old age returned: ‘Soon have this fixed for you, sir, such a generous donation.’ He fiddled with the flag a bit more and lowered his voice again. ‘A young woman in a dove-grey overcoat, an older, red-headed man with side-whiskers and a brutish-looking companion. They seem to be caught between keeping an eye on you and watching out for someone else.’

  ‘What?’ was all I could manage in the moment. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do you not?’ he replied. ‘But perhaps a young lady’s attention is nothing of note for a young man such as yourself?’ He raised his voice again as I glanced behind him at the crowds around the platform trying to see anyone resembling the pair that he was talking about. ‘Thank you so much, what a kind man you are. The veterans of our great nation thank you!’ A quick scan of the crowds around me revealed nothing and I was about to tell him what I thought of his powers of observation when I got that sense of eyes glancing away an instant before my own reached them. And saw her, a young woman in a dove-grey overcoat, assiduously reading the available choices at a chocolate dispensing machine.

  I turned to the clergyman, intent on quizzing him some more only to find him silently vanished. I looked around the crowds nearest me but saw nothing then, suddenly, caught a glimpse of his white hair bobbing against the tide of passengers coming down the steps to the platform.

  ‘You alright?’ Church asked, as he arrived holding a waxed cardboard mug. ‘You look like you’ve lost something.’

  ‘I think we’re being followed,’ I replied quietly.

  ‘How do you know?’ Church asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘Just a feeling. There’s a girl over there who seems to be taking an inordinate amount of time to choose a chocolate bar. At the machine by the stairs. She’s wearing a grey overcoat. Well, dove-grey really.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Church, taking a gulp of his tea and handing me the mug. ‘I’ll be back.’ And he was gone, not hurriedly but smoothly, easing his way through the people on the platform like a breeze through long grass. I stood watching the crowds and did my best to appear unconcerned. A slight change in the tempo of activity amongst the waiting enthusiasts at the end of the platform suggested the train’s arrival was imminent. This was confirmed a moment later by an announcement over the loudspeaker readying us for the arrival of the Caledonian and reminding us that it would be pausing at Preston for ten minutes, and that the service ran fast from Rugby to Euston.

  The Caledonian pulled in moments later with a cacophonous hiss of steam, a modern-looking locomotive, dark red and streamlined. The express line was imperial gauge, much wider than the branch line we had taken from Blackpool and the train itself was similarly scaled, the Caledonian’s scarlet-and-gold-liveried carriages dwarfing those of the trains on the station’s outer tracks.

  The train slowly drew to a halt. Mothers gathered charges, salesmen clasped their sample cases and elderly wives waited patiently while elderly husbands conducted final and thorough checks of tickets and itineraries. At the far end of the platform, the train enthusiasts had leapt into activity, a gleeful but precise flurry of notebooks and cameras. Doors began opening up and down the train and a sort of shuffling negotiation began between those ardently seeking their seats, those hurrying for a connection and those merely keen to stretch their legs.

  Church emerged from the throng and took his tea back from me. ‘Cheers.’ He took a long draught from his mug. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There’s three of them. Your girl in the coat, a ginger bloke and a nasty-looking cully with a beard like a bush. Well done. You’ve obviously got a good instinct for it.’

  ‘What do you think we should do about them?’ I asked, hoping to move the conversation along and avoid any more detailed questioning of my brilliant instinct.

  He swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘Nothing at the moment. We know they’re there, they might not know we’ve spotted them. So let’s just pretend we haven’t and see what turns up. If they’re still with us at Euston we’ll have a little fun. If not, we’ll get their descriptions to Patience, see what she digs up.’ He finished off the rest of his tea. ‘I needed that.’ Looking around for a rubbish basket, he saw one several yards down the platform and threw the empty cardboard mug in its direction. It bounced noisily in, much to the disapproval of a plump nanny clutching a pair of young boys, both of whom looked round at Church with undisguised awe on their faces.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, picking up his bag, ‘we’re in First.’

  ‘Special treatment for the new recruit?’ I asked as we walked off to the rear of the train.

  ‘More likely Patience trying to wind up Collier. He’s a bugger for expenses. Used to be a civil servant, watches every penny. Whenever he thinks we’re out of control he gets everyone in the briefing room and gives us a talking to. To be honest I think Patience wants to see what Collier looks like when he’s angry.’

  ‘Why? What does he look like?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ replied Church. ‘Right, this is us.’

  Church opened the door and stepped into a plush compartment, where four seats upholstered in blue velvet faced each other in pairs, a low, veneered table set between them. The day’s Times lay neatly on the table next to me, copies of The Strand and Sporting Life on the other side. We set our bags up on shelves, hung up our coats and sat down next to the window, opposite one another. The inner door leading to the corridor stood open and I was thinking of cl
osing it when a uniformed inspector popped his head in.

  ‘Tickets please,’ he said. Church passed our tickets across to him. ‘All good thank you, gentlemen. Would you like drinks?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be most pleasant,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll send the steward down then. Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?’

  ‘Actually yes,’ said Church, reaching into his pocket. ‘Can I rely on your discretion?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ replied the inspector, sounding slightly shocked at the idea that we might think otherwise.

  ‘Very well, my name is Detective Sergeant Church.’ He showed an ID to the inspector, who immediately stood a little taller and straighter. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Sterling. We are in the midst of a delicate investigation and it may be that we are being followed. I’m interested in three of your passengers. The first is a young woman in her early thirties, five-and-half feet tall, pale complexion, brown eyes, navy outfit under a grey coat. The second a man in his forties, medium height, short ginger hair and side-whiskers, dressed in a dark brown suit. Might be wearing a flat cap. The third is well over six feet, coarse faced with a large black beard and wearing a black overcoat and a bowler the same colour. They might be travelling together or apart.’ He paused. ‘I’d be obliged if you could confirm for us whether they are on the train or not and, if so, whether they are with any other people. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘I can, Detective Sergeant, you can count on me,’ replied the inspector.

  ‘I’m sure I can,’ said Church. ‘I shouldn’t be saying anything about this at all but you seem like the kind of man I can trust.’

  ‘That is most kind of you, sir,’ said the inspector, pride in every word.

  ‘Good. And, of course, you can’t tell anyone about this, not ever. National security is at stake here.’

  ‘Of course, I completely understand.’ The Inspector paused. ‘What is it? Anarchists?’

  ‘I can’t say any more than I have already, sir, but rest assured there is no immediate danger to the train or its passengers,’ Church said.

  The inspector seemed as though he wanted to salute but made do with a curt nod. ‘I’ll be back once we’re under way.’ He retreated more respectfully than he had arrived, taking care to close the door in silence.

  ‘Good man,’ said Church. ‘Here you go,’ he said to me, once the ticket inspector had left, passing me over a leather ID-holder. I opened the holder and saw a relatively recent head and shoulders photograph of me sealed into a plasticised Special Branch warrant card.

  ‘It’s a good fake,’ I said to Church.

  ‘Because it isn’t,’ he replied. ‘The Branch let us have a few of them, on the condition that they are issued in each agent’s codename. That way they can come back to us if we get up to anything too out of order. You know, murdering a Member of Parliament, that kind of thing. It isn’t a magic wand but officials like officials so it can sometimes smooth things along.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Case in point. Plus of course the Branch’s reputation for being right bastards adds a helpful dose of fear. Don’t lose it or it will be more than a telling off in the briefing room.’

  ‘Understood,’ I said, putting the ID into the inside pocket of my jacket.

  There was a knock at the door and we saw a white-jacketed steward outside. I beckoned him in and he slid the compartment door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Drinks, gentlemen?’

  ‘Tea,’ said Church.

  ‘We have our own breakfast blend, sir. Or you might prefer Assam or Darjeeling? Orange Pekoe? We also have a Chinese blend as well if that’s to your taste?’

  Church stared at the steward for a moment. ‘Just tea. And some of those round biscuits. The ones with jam in.’

  ‘Breakfast blend it is. And I’ll see what we have in the way of biscuits, sir,’ the steward replied. ‘And for you, sir?’ he asked me.

  ‘The same,’ I said. ‘But without the biscuits.’

  ‘Very well gentlemen, coming right up.’ He stepped back outside, closing the door behind him.

  The last few doors slammed into place, shouts rang along the platform and whistles were blown before the train jerked into motion. I picked up The Times and scanned the front pages. General Gordon speaking at a Neo-Chartist rally in Trafalgar Square. A hotel in Manchester evacuated because of a bomb threat, presumed to be Fenian radicals. I skimmed through the rest of the pages: nothing about an explosion at Millbank, no headlines about a fugitive army captain. Nothing on the possible resurgence of the Ripper.

  ‘Anything I should know about?’ asked Church.

  ‘Nothing much. Nothing about Millbank.’ I folded the paper and offered it to him. He shook his head and I put it back on the table.

  ‘Well the Bureau are hardly going to admit someone broke out of their most secure gaol,’ said Church, ‘and they don’t want some local copper running you in and hearing whatever stories they think you might have to tell. Right, here’s the tea.’ He stood up and pulled the door open for the steward, who had returned with a tray of drinks and, to Church’s obvious delight, biscuits that did indeed appear to have jam in.

  ‘Gentlemen. Your tea.’ The steward put the tray down on the table next to Church. ‘Will there be anything else?’ I shook my head and he left us to our devices.

  Church poured the tea, passed mine over to me. I thanked him and settled back to look out of the window, watching the scenery pass by while Church made a start on the biscuits.

  The train soon picked up speed and we left Preston’s soot-grey industrial landscape behind, the brick and grime of factories and warehouses replaced by the smudged browns and greys of outlying villages. I sipped my tea carefully, enjoying the sight of a landscape where people took the peace for granted and went about their days unbothered by patrolling soldiers or the worry of what trouble might visit from across the border.

  ‘It all looks so peaceful,’ I found myself saying out loud.

  ‘How long were you away?’ asked Church.

  I looked at him, startled away from my thoughts. ‘You don’t know?’

  He shook his head. ‘Milady doesn’t tell us much when she brings someone new in. And people tend not to ask. I know you served but that’s about it.’

  ‘Eight years,’ I said. ‘Canadian border. Rifles.’

  Church raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I had you figured for Guards, cavalry maybe.’

  ‘Nothing so glamorous,’ I said. And less likely for me to run into someone who might be aware of the whiff of scandal that clung to my sudden departure for Canada.

  ‘First time I came back from a long stint,’ said Church, leaning back against his seat. ‘South Africa it was, about fifteen years ago. Eighteen months running security on supply columns.’ He looked at me. ‘I got back here, flush with pay, went out for the night on the town I’d been promising myself every day of my last month there. Of course, it wasn’t like I thought it would be. London, I mean. I couldn’t get over the way everyone was just walking around without a care in the world, oblivious. No checkpoints. No mines to look out for. No shots coming out of nowhere. Just people, laughing. I wanted to run up to every single one of them, shake them, tell them there was a war on.’ He shook his head. Gave a short, unsmiling laugh. ‘I was meant to be here for two weeks. I was there two nights when a bloke I knew called me about a job in India, so I checked out the next day.’ Church dunked a biscuit in his tea and bit a piece off thoughtfully.

  ‘Did you meet Milady there?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s that?’ Church’s brow furrowed slightly.

  ‘I wondered if you’d known Milady. In India.’

  ‘Here’s the thing then, Sterling. Part of being here with us is knowing when to ask questions and knowing when to look out the window.’ He polished off the rest of the biscuit, emptied his teacup after it.

  A knock at the door heralded the return of the ticket inspector.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Churc
h.

  ‘Well, Sergeant,’ the inspector answered. ‘No sign of the young woman you mentioned but I did see your ginger-whiskered fellow and his large friend. They are sitting in second class with a group of men who would have drawn my attention even if you hadn’t already told me, if you catch my meaning.’

  ‘Rough sorts?’ Church asked.

  ‘I’d say so. Not their clothes, you understand, which are smart enough but more their manner. Hard faced.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Six in total, Sergeant, including the men you described to me.’ said the inspector.

  ‘Thank you inspector,’ I said. ‘That’s incredibly helpful. You can leave things to us now, though. Don’t pay too much attention to these men beyond your normal duties. We don’t anticipate that there will be any trouble on the train.’

  ‘Right you are, Superintendent. But if I notice anything else I’ll come and find you.’ said the inspector.

  ‘Ideal,’ I replied.

  ‘Is there a bar at this end of the train?’ asked Church.

  ‘There’s a dining carriage between here and Second Class if it’s lunch you’re after,’ said the inspector, ‘or there’s a bar at the rear of the train with a billiard room where you could get—’

  ‘Did you say billiard room?’ Church interrupted.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the inspector, smiling, ‘a three-quarter size table but very playable. First Class passengers only.’

  ‘Excellent, well thank you for your help, inspector, and please remember, not a word about us or this conversation. And if all goes as we expect,’ I said, reaching out to shake his hand, ‘I’ll make sure to write a letter of commendation to your company.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, that’s very kind,’ he replied.

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied with a smile.

  Church waited till the ticket inspector had left before speaking. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘That somewhere between Crewe and Rugby we should expect a visit from Ginger and his friends,’ I said.