Agatha & the Scarlet Scarab

by Karl Fish

  Aggie managed to smirk, but the mention of a body only managed to remind her of recent perils.

  ‘Is there something you’d like to talk about?’ Miss Dove persisted.

  ‘I'm fine,’ Aggie responded.

  ‘You can always talk to me anytime anything bothers you, OK?’ Miss Dove reassured her.

  ‘OK,’ Aggie replied.

  ‘In that case, you better drink up and we’ll meet your new classmates.’

  Aggie finished her tea and followed Miss Dove back down the corridor leading to the girls’ wing.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ Miss Dove advised. ‘The sisters usually insist on parading you at the front of the class on your first day. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

  Aggie inhaled through her nose and filled her lungs.

  Miss Dove opened the door for her.

  ‘Ahh. Miss Chatsmore. Do join us,’ came the authoritative voice from the nun at the front. ‘Full bill, I take it, Miss Dove?’

  ‘She’s very healthy, Sister Harvey,’ Miss Dove responded although the nun and the teacher strained politeness to one another.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Dove,’ the nun curtly acknowledged. She then quickly closed the door on her colleague and beckoned Aggie to the front of the room.

  Not a lot of love lost there, by the looks of things, Aggie thought to herself.

  ‘I see you are sporting Priory colours, Miss Chatsmore, if what, somewhat, old,’ the nun continued, pointing towards Aggie’s blazer.

  ‘My…umm…host gave them to me. I wouldn’t really know,’ Aggie said quietly. Remembering not to divulge any family ties.

  ‘And who is your host, may I ask?’ Sister Harvey persisted.

  For a moment Aggie had to stop herself leading with the word uncle and it seemed so peculiar to add his surname.

  ‘Gideon Belchambers,’ Aggie said.

  A small round of oohs and ahhs came from the girls. Aggie looked around at the commotion, catching Elizabeth’s eye. The frown that came back suggested she kept quiet and didn’t really react.

  ‘Quiet!’ Sister Harvey exalted with a thundering clap. All the girls sat bolt upright.

  Aggie, meanwhile, was observing the class. It was a mix of ages and maturities, five-year-olds through to mid-teens, as well as a mix of those in the local Priory colours and those without. There was distinct segregation of the Priory locals to the left-hand side, from the teacher’s perspective. Uniforms pristine and coordinated. Elizabeth and Gemima Peabody sat on the dishevelled right amongst other girls whose makeshift uniforms and mismatched socks were as much at odds with one another as they were their Priory peers.

  From the left, an immaculately dressed young lady placed her hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, Ms Huntington-Smythe ?’ Sister Harvey asked.

  ‘Sister,’ she started in an assured manner. ‘As our newcomer, Miss Chatsmore, is sporting our colours, will she be placed amongst the Priory girls?’

  Aggie looked towards Elizabeth with a puzzled look. Once again she was met with a negative frown and subtle head twist suggesting it was not wise.

  ‘The choice is simple,’ the sister replied. ‘There are two spare seats and Miss Chatsmore can decide for herself.’

  Aggie felt the eyes of the class all burn into her at once. From the left, the flattering debutante lashes and glinting pearly whites beamed back at her. From the right, Elizabeth and Gemima looked on like eager, doe-eyed pups. The rest looked angry as if revenge for the wrong decision was more important then the decision itself.

  Had Elizabeth not warned Aggie on their morning journey she was sure she would have yielded to the flattery from the Priory girls. The evacuees, to be frank, were unappealing. All dirt and malnourishment. However, Gideon trusted the Peabodys and, therefore, her decision was made.

  Walking down the centre of the class, she approached Miss Huntington-Smythe and held out her hand. ‘Thank you,’ Aggie said and was met with a huge beaming smile from the ladies on the left. ‘But I do not originate from Ambledown. So perhaps I should sit over here.’

  Miss Huntington-Smythe spited the handshake and looked forward smiling. The Priory girls swiftly followed suit as if Aggie no longer existed.

  Aggie, awkwardly, made her way towards Elizabeth and took the chair that sat adjacent to her.

  Under her breath, Elizabeth whispered to her new friend, ‘You’ve just made a huge enemy.’ Elizabeth giggled. ‘It was the right choice, believe me. But watch your back. We’ll be watching it too.’

  ‘Quiet!’ came the thunderous voice and clap from Sister Harvey as she approached the chalkboard to recommence her lessons.

  Aggie glanced sideways at Huntington-Smythe whose stone-cold glare met her halfway. Day two in Ambledown, enemy number two confirmed.

  Chapter 22

  Friends and foes

  The corridors of Whitehall allowed only those with level three clearance into their privileged confines. Thompson, by default of Draper’s disappearance, was now allowed such privilege. Clutching the papyrus plant in one hand, he left the black Rolls Royce and entered via the fortified sentry from Downing Street.

  Number Ten was the well known and obvious address bestowed on the Prime Minister. Number Eleven the Chancellor. But who knew of Number Seven?

  On entering ‘Seven’, he was subject to the customary pat down, identity check, and had to relinquish any firearms. However, the small pot plant, which by any standards was a peculiar item to be carrying around in wartime, was not subject to scrutiny. A quick once-over and it was dismissed as non-threatening. Assumptions that it was harmless, perhaps due to its organic nature, may have contributed to how it had penetrated the Department in the first place. It proved to Thompson one thing. How easy the infiltration had been, and it was time to demonstrate this to the senior ranks.

  ‘Enter,’ came the gravelled voice from behind the polished wooden door.

  Thompson was gambling with his career as he prepared for his next stunt. He drew a large breath and then exhaled with gusto before entering The Master’s office at Number Seven, Downing Street.

  Cupped within his right hand, he carried the papyrus plant hidden behind him as he proceeded. His first observation of the room was that it was dark. The walls were covered in padded burgundy leather and once the door closed behind him, he could not distinguish the entrance from any other part of the room. There were no windows, just a single reading light with emerald Bakelite shade that shone down on the writing desk. A brass nameplate, the only other item to keep the light company in the stark room, simply read, W. Waverley

  Sitting within a swivelling chair, their back turned to anyone entering through that threshold, was Draper’s superior, The Master. A wispy thread of cigarette smoke presented itself and danced vertically just above the dark head of hair only just visible from the large reclining chair’s back. It was well-hidden against the dimly lit office.

  ‘Afternoon, sir. I’m Thompson,’ he said nervously. He stood with hands behind his back, masking the pot plant.

  There was no immediate response. Thompson surveyed the room while the silence oppressed him. He scanned for the quickest exit. There were no windows and, on the face of it, there were no obvious doors, apart from the one he had just entered through – if he could find it again – but no obvious means of escape.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, sir. Draper is missing,’ Thompson continued.

  An ambitious individual, he had hoped that meeting a senior ranking officer would have been in more positive circumstances and not to tell them he had misplaced his superior.

  Several minutes passed and Thompson’s patience wore thin.

  ‘Mr Waverley?’ Thompson asked.

  There was still no response. Just another plume of cigarette smoke discharged into the air.

  ‘Wink? Wink Waverley? That is your name, isn’t it? Draper told me that you would be reassured if I knew your nickname and it could’ve only come from him, sir.’

  A coarse laugh fo
llowed and stunned Thompson. Then calmly W. Waverley responded, ‘Wink is indeed my nickname.’ She laughed, exhaling the final cigarette smoke. ‘But rarely does one hear it to one’s face. Although technically you’re talking to the back of my head.’ Wink Waverley spluttered and laughed at the same time.

  Thompson rolled his eyes; luckily she wasn’t staring right at him, as she would have seen his skin turning as burgundy as the surrounding walls. Draper had never explained Wink Waverley was female. What a fool Thompson now felt, having referred to her as ‘sir’ several times already.

  ‘I’m terribly embarrassed, ma’am,’ Thompson declared apologetically.

  Wink Waverley, still very much amused, spun around and edged her face into the light. ‘By the looks of your face, Draper failed to mention my missing eye too.’ She smiled back at Thompson’s horrified face.

  Draper had failed to mention that too. Wink was an awful nickname. Who on earth thought that was a good idea? Fortunately, the void and its imitation glass eye were currently covered with a black leather patch. Something she shared in common with the recently encountered Nathaniel Noone.

  ‘But Wink? As a nickname, seriously?’ he thought to himself. Did he really know Draper at all? His right-hand still clutched the papyrus. He removed his hat and ran his left hand through his hair. Wink Waverley in the meantime meandered around the desk, grabbed Thompson assuredly with both hands and stared straight up at him. There must have been a foot in height between them but he was clearly the subordinate.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Thompson. I was just beginning to like your rare honesty.’ She addressed him in an authoritative tone, no longer laughing. ‘If this gets you hot under the collar then Draper may not have chosen his successor wisely.’

  ‘I see,’ he replied. Then regretted his choice of words. Taking a moment to compose himself, Thompson stepped forward and placed the papyrus pot plant under the beam of the desk lamp.

  ‘I hope that’s not a gift.’ Wink smirked. ‘I hate plants.’

  ‘It’s a gift of sorts, ma’am. Or it can be a spy,’ Thompson advised.

  Wink’s ears pricked up. ‘Really. A spy?’ she responded interestedly. ‘And you thought to bring it in here?’

  Thompson was just about to reassure her that it posed no immediate threat when the wall to the left of the desk turned on its axis and in strode a man in full military regalia.

  ‘Maam, I need your signature and support on these papers,’ he bellowed as he strode. He hardly took a second glance at Thompson and left as soon as he had placed the folder with the papers in it upon Wink’s desk. The briefest recognition between himself and Wink took place before he was gone through the door wall and the room was enclosed in padded burgundy leather once again.

  Thompson, on the other hand, had paid much more attention to this interruption. The man had a small crescent-shaped scar above his left eye. He had seen him before in a photograph, just hours earlier.

  ‘Who was that?’ Thompson enquired.

  ‘You’ve never met Commander Malling before?’ Wink asked.

  Thompson shook his head.

  ‘He has the unenviable task of managing all the air-raid warning systems and ensuring Britain blacks out at night. Poor Malling.’ She coughed as she spoke. ‘One hell of a responsibility.’

  At that moment he wished he had confiscated Noone’s photograph and torches to present to Wink Waverley. Though he wasn’t sure who he could really trust.

  ‘So, Thompson, tell me about our little green spy,’ Wink said, sparking up another cigarette.

  ‘If you tell me about your eye,’ he countermanded.

  Emboldened by the fact that Malling could be the key to Draper’s disappearance, he now questioned the entire situation he was forced into. Scepticism was the spy’s favourite ally. The problem with espionage and spying is that trust was imperative and spies rarely trusted anyone. A simple paradox.

  ‘Why? And be honest,’ Wink asked.

  ‘I need to know if I can trust you,’ Thompson replied.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly know that,’ Wink replied unreservedly. ‘That’s all part of the cycle of deception and lies we tell ourselves. You know that as well as I. So, I will tell you how I came to lose my eye and you can decide to trust me or not. I will, in turn, understand if you are very smart or very stupid.’

  ‘Very well,’ Thompson agreed.

  ‘I was nine years old and on a hunt with my father,’ Wink explained.

  ‘You were shot?’ Thompson interrupted

  ‘No, I wasn’t shot. The horse I was riding was spooked when a pheasant flew out from the bracken. He bolted. I was thrown into the hedgerow but unfortunately for my eye, it met with a Hawthorn bush. Pierced it through to the cornea.’

  ‘Good grief. That must have been agony,’ Thompson said sympathetically.

  ‘Excruciating. The irony was the look upon my father’s face when he found me. It was far more painful for him to see his little girl in such distress. God bless him.’ Wink Waverley’s voice lowered a little and her shoulders slumped.

  ‘And you don’t mind the fact people call you Wink?’ Thompson asked.

  ‘My first name is actually Winifred, you imbecile. I was nicknamed Wink and had perfect twenty-twenty long before that damned bush took my eye,’ she replied angrily, sparking up another cigarette. ‘I’ll be damned if a plant was to define me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Thompson apologised.

  ‘So, you believe me?’ Wink changed tone, suggesting she may be lying. ‘Are you actually going to show me this plant?’

  Thompson was convinced the emotions he had just witnessed could not be improvised, no matter how deceptive a person could be.

  ‘This is a papyrus plant,’ Thompson began. ‘A gift from a colleague to Draper. Only this plant has ears, and I believe it may be able to talk too.’

  Wink moved closer towards the green leaves under the light on the desk.

  ‘You sound insane. Do you realise that?’ Wink laughed.

  ‘Well, I am an imbecile, ma’am.’ Thompson smirked.

  Wink Waverley then took and smashed the plant pot on her desk. Within the soil, a sequence of small electrical wires ran outward like artificial roots with smaller circuits of metal with plastic at the end. Thompson was no expert but had taken time to examine it during his journey to Whitehall.

  ‘I assumed that was a battery ma’am. I disconnected it en route,’ he advised, pointing to a metal disc. ‘And I believe, by watering the plant it somehow empowers the circuit. Not sure how the wires work but no doubt a microphone and audio device of some description’

  Wink Waverley pulled out a drawer from her desk. Inside was a telephone. She picked it up and dialled a single number.

  ‘All plants to be removed from all parliamentary offices, departments, war rooms, and areas of special interest. Today!’ she barked.

  And with that, wheels were set in motion across the country to execute Wink’s order.

  ‘I think we’ll have to send this to the boffins at Bletchley to look at. If it is what you say it is, they will uncover its secrets. Now, tell me about Draper; the facts of what happened and the circumstances surrounding it, including any of your own theories.’

  ‘I’ll start with Jennifer James,’ Thompson began.

  Chapter 23

  The body in the brook

  No sooner had Sister Harvey’s lesson reconvened than battle had begun. Henrietta Huntington-Smythe, to give her full name, glared at Aggie and with her followed the Priory sisterhood.

  ‘Ignore them,’ Elizabeth offered.

  ‘I intend to,’ Aggie whispered back.

  The attentive Sister Harvey had ears like a fox and rarely did anything escape her attention.

  ‘Miss Chatsmore,’ she said, still scribing on the board. ‘It is common courtesy in my classroom to pay attention and refrain from idle gossip.’

  Smythe and her cronies giggled a little, but it was hardly worthy of note. Aggie was amazed that the ageing
sister could’ve heard her in the first place.

  ‘This morning, Class, we have a simple assignment. Weights and measures.’ The sister punctuated the weights and measures as she underlined the words on the board.

  The class looked abundantly confused at each other.

  ‘So, quite simply, this is a lesson in mathematics,’ the sister continued. ‘I would like you all to write down what you had for breakfast this morning. From there, we will determine the weight of each item and thus calculate the costs using the imperial rationing standards.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Aggie mouthed to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth responded with a nod towards a very large table that hung next to the board from where Sister Harvey was providing her teaching sermon. It was suspended on the Priory side of the room. Aggie then noticed there were charts and tables hung around the entire classroom. She could easily spot a periodic table for chemistry, a list of capital cities of the world; times tables, up to and including twelve, dominated the wall to the rear of them as well as many smaller charts she could not focus on from distance.

  ‘You are allowed to confer within your respectful table groups. Older children, please assist the younger children if you can and be sure to explain rather than just do. You have thirty minutes to complete your task. Begin!’ the sister ordered, more sergeant major than teacher. And with that, Sister Harvey produced an alarm clock that she set to half an hour and the countdown began.

  ‘Did you understand that?’ Elizabeth Peabody enquired as she turned to Aggie.

  ‘I understood that we are to calculate the cost of our breakfast. But why?’

  ‘Search me. They’re always harping on about rationing and how things are getting worse. Children cannot possibly understand adult affairs. Blah Blah Blah. So I guess this is a lesson in mathematics and humility,’ Elizabeth explained.

  ‘First of all, we need to make a list, right?’ Aggie replied.

  ‘Shouldn’t take long. Hey, Gem?’ Elizabeth smiled at her little sister.