The Sterling Directive

by Tim Standish

I walked over to the dining table and sat down, gingerly relaxing into the chair and trying to find a position to sit in that didn’t hurt.

  To give my mind something else to do, I looked over the display while I waited for the others: Sir Anthony was in a photograph of what looked like the opening of his new hospital extension while Richardson stared out nervously from an identification card headshot. An old police personnel file photo showed DS Harris as a younger but no happier police constable. Beneath the photos were typed cards describing background, connection to the Ripper murders and current whereabouts, while some presented only a question. ‘Venice?’ asked a card beneath Sir Anthony’s proud smile. There were also some blank pieces of cards where photos should have been, respectively labelled Patron, Director, Agent. Red string ran between the three; another piece of it ran from the last of these to Harris. On a small, felt-covered card table next to the boards was a neat stack of blank cards, a handful of pencils, a box of drawing pins, and a ball of red string. Out in the hallway the clock struck four.

  Collier had brought me in here as soon as Church and I had arrived, ordering in some tea and sitting me down for a conversation while Church had wandered off upstairs with the blindfolded Harris to an interrogation room. Collier had started by congratulating me on a successful trip.

  ‘Successful?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed yes,’ had come Collier’s reply. ‘As I understand it you flushed out the opposition and, in doing so, I would say, gave a strong indication of the existence of some sort of conspiracy. You retrieved some vital information and captured a potentially useful source of intelligence, so yes, I would call that a success.’

  ‘People died,’ I said. Seeing Richardson then, purple face bloated, hanging mute in his cheap pyjamas.

  ‘True,’ Collier replied, ‘and, of course, most regrettable but whether such a cost was worth paying we won’t know until you bring the directive to a successful conclusion. What we can be sure of is that they were not killed by you,’ continued Collier, ‘and not killed because of you. The conspirators could have silenced or made Richardson unavailable some other way, but they decided not to. It was their choice, not yours, that killed him. It might be difficult, but as a field executive you have to put such mishaps behind you.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Which I hope you will be able to do?’ There was a note of minor concern in his voice, as if we were discussing the availability of a particular condiment at lunch.

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ I said, ‘But I can’t help wondering whether, if we had had more information before we headed to Blackpool, we might have been able to proceed differently, with less serious consequences.’

  ‘Certainty is an often-absent luxury when it comes to the kind of work we do, Sterling. Proceeding without it is something to which you will have to become acclimatised,’ he said. ‘But I trust you would let me know if you have any personal qualms again about the course of action we are taking.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, not really meaning it and suspecting that any disagreements would, in reality, be less than welcome.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Collier. ‘Well, let’s put that to one side for now. To continue, would you mind talking me through the main points of your trip.’

  I did so briefly, covering our meeting with Richardson, our discovery of his and his landlady’s bodies the next morning followed by our encounter on the train. It wasn’t until I started on the last part of our journey that Collier interrupted.

  ‘You weren’t aware of being followed till you were at Preston?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what alerted you to that fact?’

  Describing a whispered warning from an alms-seeking vicar seemed a little fantastical and I thought better of mentioning it. ‘Just a feeling, really. It’s difficult to explain. Something about the way the girl was acting just caught my eye.’

  ‘I see.’ Collier seemed happy enough with that. ‘When it came to your confrontation on the train would you say you had any other recourse than the one you took?’

  ‘I would say not,’ I replied. ‘Harris and his men were clearly intent on delivering much more than a warning. Given their treatment of Richardson I guessed that their aim was to render us incapable. If we hadn’t acted first, they would have done so and your directive would have been dead in the water.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Collier. ‘Well, let’s see what information Church can procure as a result.’

  Collier had excused himself and left me to my own devices at that stage, saying as he left that we would reconvene at four o’clock. I had taken the opportunity for a welcome soak in a bath and a change of clothes before coming back down here to wait for the others.

  A set of photographs had been dropped in the middle of the table and left to lie there like a deck of poorly shuffled cards. Some of them were spotted and streaked; evidence of their rushed development. A fair number were blank, unused frames from the Eastman that I’d borrowed from one of the enthusiasts on the train, his initial reluctance overcome by a rental offer of twice the camera’s worth. The rest were of the train’s arrival and a few of the owner’s fellow enthusiasts. The shots I had taken of Harris and his gang were with Patience, she having assured me that she was somehow able to derive their Bertie numbers from the images and use those for a quick search of police records. As well as this task, waved away as barely worth her attention, Patience was also tackling the challenge of deriving enlarged prints from Richardson’s waistcoat camera plate. I had popped down to her room earlier to check but it had been locked, with a sign saying ‘NO. GO AWAY’ taped to the door. Knocking had received a shouted and less polite version of the sign.

  I leaned back carefully and looked again at the display laid out on the board; something about the titles niggled me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  ‘I didn’t know you were here!’

  I turned around in my chair, grimacing slightly at a twinging rib, and, after the merest instant of hesitation, recognised the blonde stranger in the doorway as Green. The sober and professional Gibson Girl had been replaced by a winsome, blonde-ringleted gadabout, her clothes a little too colourful and a little too frothy in the way that might lead an observer to quickly deduce, in approximately this order: tourist, rich, American.

  ‘Why, sir!’ she exclaimed loudly in an accent I recognised as being from the Southern States. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t recognise me!’ She stopped suddenly and looked around the room. ‘Did you know that it was almost dark in here?’ Without waiting for an answer, she flicked a switch by the door, setting the electric lamps around the walls into life with a steadily brightening glow.

  ‘Miss Green,’ I said, standing.

  ‘Mr Sterling,’ she replied, this time in her own voice.

  ‘Unless I should be using a different name?’ I asked.

  She laughed and gave a deep curtsey. ‘Virginia Cobb, at your service, sir. Just a tourist on her first trip to London and,’ she slipped back into the southern accent and raised her voice, ‘it is just the most exciting place!’

  ‘You’re right. I barely recognised you,’ I said. ‘For whose benefit?’

  ‘Sir Anthony Willard’s assistant,’ said Green. ‘I managed an accidental meeting this lunchtime.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just a brief chat,’ she replied, ‘but I know that she is originally from Surrey, has never been to the America, prefers hot chocolate to coffee and on a sunny day she has her lunch in Hyde Park. I’m crossing my fingers that the weather will be kind for us tomorrow.’ Green reached for the teapot.

  ‘All gone, I’m afraid,’ I said.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Green, ‘no doubt fresh supplies are on their way.’ She walked across to the table and sat down on the other side from me. ‘How was Blackpool?’

  ‘Wet,’ I said. Then, after a pause: ‘Eventful.’

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ Green replied. ‘It sounds like you stirred up a hornets’ nest and then some.’ The
last added in her new-found Southern twang.

  ‘Ah, Miss Green, Mr Sterling. Good to see you both here on time.’ said Collier, entering the room with the same casual pace as the day before, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a thick-edged Manila folder. ‘Mr Church will be joining us shortly as, I am assured, will be Patience. So, my main concern at this present moment,’ he said, casting an appraising eye over the mantelpiece, ‘is refreshment.’ He stepped back into the doorway and leaned his head into the corridor outside. ‘March!’ he called, then turned back to us. ‘You are well enough rested, Sterling?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘Well enough.’

  ‘And Miss Green, your initial foray this morning was a success?’

  ‘Yes Mr Collier,’ said Green, with enthusiastic formality, ‘Contact has been made and I am convinced that I can secure an information source for the Directive.’

  ‘Excellent news. Ah, March,’ said Collier as the butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Could you sort out a pot or two of tea for us?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Collier. And something to eat? I had some sandwiches prepared in case you required them.’

  ‘An excellent idea, March. See to it, would you? And do let Mr Church and Miss Patience know that we are ready for them.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ March swept away in that discreetly grandiose manner that experienced butlers pride themselves on. As he did so a young man in shirt sleeves showed himself briefly at the doorway to let us know that Church was on his way down.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you, Mr Wallis,’ Collier called to the young man then came over to sit at the head of the table, facing the windows. He placed the folder on the table in front of him and reached into his pocket for a fountain pen, which he placed on top of the folder.

  ‘God, I’m parched.’ Church walked in, folding his jacket and coat over the back of a chair and sitting down at the table next to Green. His collar was undone, as was his waistcoat. He nodded at me with a curt ‘Sterling’, then dropped a few sheets of handwritten notes in front of him and looked Green over. ‘Nice outfit, Green. I like the Barnet.’ Green’s brow furrowed in confusion till Church took pity on her and pointed at his head. ‘The hair.’

  ‘Why thank you, sir,’ Green responded, a Southern Belle again for a moment.

  Collier gave a gentle cough. ‘Did you see any sign of Patience as you came in, Mr Church?’ he asked.

  ‘Standing to attention in the corridor? Waiting keenly for the meeting to start? Not a glimpse. I can go down and drag her out of her cave if you like,’ said Church, dropping his tie on the table next to him.

  I shifted to a slightly more comfortable position in my chair, happy for the moment to let the conversation wash over me.

  ‘No need, thank you Church, I am sure she will be here in a moment,’ replied Collier.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Actually Church, you know some of us take our responsibilities seriously.’ Patience walked in, shirt and trousers still slightly too big for her, her hair piled up under what looked like a train engineer’s cap. A collection of translucent envelopes was held under one arm; she closed the door behind her and walked around to sit next to me, putting the envelopes on the table. ‘Hello Mr Collier, sorry if I was a little late. All ready now and very much looking forward to hearing what everyone has to say,’ she said and sat up straight, smiling at Collier with a mix of attentiveness and contrition on her face. Church shook his head.

  ‘Thank you, Patience.’ Collier took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out carefully on the table in front of him. ‘Miss Green, would you mind making any relevant notes and updating the boards after the meeting?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Collier.’ Green produced a small, cardboard-backed notebook and a pencil and readied herself.

  The door opened and March walked in carrying a tray arranged with the paraphernalia of tea. Behind him the young man that Collier had called Wallis carried a platter of sandwiches. Conversation paused as plates were deposited, cups arranged, sandwiches distributed and tea poured, March and his helper working quickly and deftly before departing with the tray from the mantelpiece and closing the door behind them.

  ‘So,’ said Collier, ‘the Blackpool trip has borne fruit, perhaps more than we had expected, including a demonstration of serious and harmful intent from the conspirators. I assume, Mr Church, that your experiences have convinced you that this is more than, how did you put it, “a jolly for the new lad”?’

  Church nodded slowly, swallowing down the second half of a ham sandwich.

  ‘Good,’ continued Collier. ‘And how did you fare with the good Sergeant Harris?’

  ‘We got on very well. I’ll spare you the details but suffice it to say that after a little chat he started singing like the proverbial.’

  ‘Did he take much convincing?’ asked Green.

  Before Church could respond, Patience interrupted from the end of the table. ‘Did you give him the third degree? A right going over? I bet you did.’

  Church glanced at her. ‘Now look, Patience,’ he said, ‘when you are locked away working your supposed magic­—’

  ‘Literal, actual magic,’ interjected Patience.

  ‘Whatever you call it,’ said Church, ‘I don’t ask you how you go about your business and I expect you to do the same for me.’

  ‘Oh my God, Church, did you break a chair over his head?’ asked Patience, before continuing in one of the worst faux-cockney accents I had ever heard. ‘Did you give him a bunch of fives in his Alberts?’

  ‘Thank you, Patience,’ said Collier, voice stiffening slightly.

  Patience sat up straight again and smiled. ‘Of course, Mr Collier. I am so sorry, Mr Collier.’

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ said Church, treating Patience to a stern look. ‘Our man Harris has had one of the worst days of his life today.’ Church drank a quick mouthful of tea, put the cup back down on its saucer with a slight clink. ‘For the last seven years he has had a nice little life in the Special Branch back office in Birmingham. As of this morning, he has become an accessory to a capital crime, he’s been on the losing end of a short and painful round of fisticuffs with Sterling here,’ Church pointed at me across the table, ‘and he’s been arrested. He may look like a bit of a hard man – we saw that on the train. But once you poke him: paper thin.’

  ‘So how much has he told you?’ asked Collier.

  ‘Plenty.’ Church took another swig of tea and looked down at the notes in front of him. ‘It starts in the spring of ’88. Harris is enjoying life as a CID sergeant until his inspector finally catches onto the fact that, while he seemed to be effective enough at catching thieves and the odd violent husband, none of the better-off criminals in the district were getting put away, and one in particular had developed an oddly accurate ability to guess when police raids were on their way. Not enough proof to turf Harris out, though, so they did the next best thing and transferred him to a job in Central Records, hoping that he would get fed up and quit.

  ‘So there he is, angry at being half found out and narked off at being stuck behind a desk when one day he gets a telegram, anonymous, no sender. It asks him to print out some information from the files and drop it off the next day at particular post office to be collected by someone called Smith. The information wasn’t too serious – staffing lists, that sort of thing – but still confidential, so mindful of his recent near miss, he ignored it.’ Church paused and referred to his notes again. ‘The next evening when Harris gets back to his rooms there is a copy of the telegram waiting for him. Along with it was an additional page listing a series of events; failed raids, missing evidence and changes in witness statements that Harris recognised as being his dirty work. Being smart enough to join the dots, as soon as he got to work the next day he printed the files out, dropped them off in a package as instructed and was delighted to find the sum of thirty pounds appear in his bank account the day after.’

  ‘And Harris never tried to
find out who was behind the messages?’ asked Green.

  ‘He called the post office to try and track the sender of the telegram but they couldn’t find any reference in their system,’ said Church. ‘After that he says that he didn’t bother.’

  ‘Are untraceable telegrams a possibility, Patience?’ asked Collier.

  Patience looked up from her plate where she had been opening sandwiches, removing the filling and replacing it with carefully sprinkled spoonfuls of sugar, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘I suppose so. You would need to know the GPO system really well, and have full access.’ She paused. ‘It would be easier to create a false account for each telegram that you wanted to send then delete it afterwards. Either way it means breaking into the GPO engines which is very tricky and very illegal and ridiculously hard these days since the Bureau upgraded the GPO security procedures.’

  ‘Not something that your average tapper could pull off then?’ asked Green.

  ‘God, no,’ Patience replied. ‘Thinking about it, it would probably be far easier to just bribe someone on the inside to do it for you or just create a paper forgery and deliver it by hand.’

  I had a thought. ‘What if you’re on the inside already?’ Patience and Collier looked at my sudden interjection. ‘What I mean is, what if sending using the system itself is your easiest option because you have full access as part of your job?’

  ‘Someone from the Post Office?’ asked Collier.

  ‘Either that or the Bureau themselves,’ I said. ‘You said at the first briefing that if there was a conspiracy it might involve police or someone to do with security. Why not the Bureau? Someone there would have exactly the kind of access you would need to do this, isn’t that correct, Patience?’

  ‘Totally and absolutely so, Sterling. They’d have all the back door codes, administrator shortcuts,’ she paused for a moment, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the thought of it. ‘Tapper’s paradise.’

  ‘Thank you, Patience,’ said Collier, ‘Miss Green perhaps you could make a note of Mr Sterling’s suggestion and we can continue. According to Harris, did this arrangement continue, Mr Church?’