The inquest brought in the predictable verdict of wilful murder against Cedric Chapman. Anthony was making his way out of the Assembly Rooms, when his sense of danger flared. He stopped dead. At the back of the crowd was a flurry of movement. At that precise moment Sherston caught up with him and took him by the elbow.
‘Can we offer you some refreshment up at the house, my dear fellow?’
‘Thank you,’ said Anthony abstractedly. ‘Yes, thank you very much.’
A little way up the street, walking away very rapidly, Anthony saw the back of a man. As he turned the corner, Anthony could see he was tall and stiff-shouldered, dressed in a dark topcoat and carrying a black stick with a glint of silver at the handle. Under his soft hat Anthony could have sworn he saw a glimpse of fair hair.
Anthony tried to break through the crowd, but the throng on the pavement was too great.
‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Sherston.
Anthony reluctantly turned back with a shrug of disappointment. ‘It’s nothing. I thought I saw someone I recognized.’
So he’d been watched. Well, Cedric Chapman had known enough about him to search his rooms, and the fair-haired man was, he had guessed, Chapman’s boss. It wasn’t remarkable that he should be observed but he still didn’t like it.
‘You must be mistaken, Colonel,’ said Josette. ‘Anyone who recognized you would’ve spoken to you, surely?’
Sherston ushered them both towards the waiting car where they stood, waiting for Tara. Sherston looked dissatisfied. ‘I’m glad the inquest’s over, but I can’t say I’m much wiser. I still can’t work out why Veronica was in Ticker’s Wood.’
‘Do stop, Patrick!’ said Josette sharply. She looked at Anthony apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but we’ve gone over this endlessly. I don’t know how poor Tara has coped.’ She gave them both a warning glance as Tara approached. ‘There you are, my dear.’
‘What an absolute waste of time!’ said Tara. ‘I still don’t know why my mother was killed.’
‘Tara, don’t!’ pleaded Josette with a shudder. ‘You mustn’t brood about it. It can’t be good for you.’
Tara, pale and heavy-eyed, put her hand on Josette’s arm. ‘Maybe it isn’t, but I find it easier to face things, rather than ignoring them.’
‘But you can’t do anything,’ said Josette, sympathetically.
Tara squeezed her arm. ‘You are sweet, Josette,’ she said seriously. ‘Both you and Uncle Patrick couldn’t have been more thoughtful. I know you hate anything violent, and I do appreciate your kindness. We won’t talk about it if you’d rather not. Perhaps it is better that way.’
Josette looked relived. As they settled into the car, she hunted round for another topic of conversation. ‘Colonel, have you seen the articles in the Sentinel? The ones about you, I mean?’
‘They’ve caused an absolute sensation,’ said Sherston proudly. ‘I’ve rarely known anything like it. By jingo, Colonel, if anyone had the slightest idea that you were the man all the fuss is about, even I couldn’t have kept the press away from the inquest. Have you seen the German Town we’re building? That’s drawing in crowds already and it isn’t finished yet.’
Once started, he happily talked about the Town and the Sentinel all the way to Starhanger. It was a relief when Anthony, pleading a train to catch, could finally slip away.
It was getting on for dusk when he arrived back at the Ocean Hotel, a golden evening, with the sun catching the clouds in pinks and blues in the big East Anglian sky. As far as he could tell, no one on the journey from Swayling to London had evinced any interest in him or, thank goodness, Günther Hedtke (alias John Robinson) as he went on from Liverpool Street Station to Harwich.
The evening really was lovely, thought Anthony as he walked back from the station, far too pleasant to stay in the bar of the hotel.
He’d picked up a paper at the station and, sitting on the sea wall at Dovercourt, he turned to the latest breathless account of his doings.
Sherston had captured the excitement all right, but what he couldn’t describe were the slips which were covered up, the accusations a hairs-breadth away, the sick feeling of over-tightened nerves suddenly relaxed, and the queer bravado which took the place of caution. Yes, it was probably as well he’d left Germany when he did. He had a suspicion he wouldn’t have lasted much longer.
He stuffed the paper into his pocket and, with his pipe drawing nicely, walked away from the houses onto a country lane bounded by fields with the sea beyond.
A big black Daimler with its hood closed drove slowly past him. A few hundred yards further on, Anthony rounded a corner and saw the car drawn up to the verge.
A green-liveried chauffeur was standing beside the car, a map spread out on the bonnet. He looked up as Anthony approached, his face brightening with relief.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said touching his cap. ‘My master’s been taken ill. We’ve been told the nearest doctor lives on Seaview Road, but I can’t find it. Can you direct me?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the area very well,’ said Anthony. ‘You should find a doctor easily enough in Harwich, though.’
The chauffeur looked back at the car anxiously. ‘I hope so. My master’s in a bad way.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Anthony.
The chauffeur looked puzzled. ‘I think it’s called mal something. He picked it up in Africa. It comes and goes. He’s terribly ill if it’s not treated. He sees a special doctor in London.’
The mention of Africa intrigued Anthony. ‘Maybe I can help,’ he suggested, saying the obvious and decent thing. ‘I know something about tropical illness. It sounds as if it might be malaria,’ he added, walking round to the passenger door. ‘What are his symptoms?’
From behind him the chauffeur gave a funny little gasp. Anthony whirled to see the chauffeur, his face contorted, raising a rubber cosh. Anthony jerked to one side and took the blow on his shoulder.
With tracks of fire lancing down his arm, Anthony lashed out, sending the man sprawling. The chauffeur picked himself up, hefted the cosh and came at him again. This time Anthony wasn’t so quick and the chauffeur caught him a glancing blow, knocking him to the ground. Dizzily, Anthony tried to pick himself up but his reactions were slow.
The chauffeur clamped a sweet-smelling pad over his face. Anthony struggled, helplessly trying to get the sickly gauze away from his mouth and nose, then the chloroform sapped his senses and the world turned to black.
He came to gradually. He tried to open his eyes but something was in the way. There was a blindfold over his eyes and a gag round his mouth. His ankles were bound and his wrists tied behind his back.
His face was pressed against the Daimler’s seat and he moved fractionally, enjoying the coolness of the leather against his cheek. An engine thrummed and under his ear came the smooth swish of the tyres on the road.
He must have groaned as he woke. He knew that, and stifled any more sounds. Between the gag and the engine, the sound was muffled and he lay quietly. No one spoke and, with infinite caution, Anthony straightened out his cramped limbs, bit by bit, finding huge relief in the tiny movements.
He gradually took in his bearings. He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey in the back of the Daimler, being taken to God knows where. He felt horribly sick, a usual reaction to chloroform. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen for the chauffeur’s trick.
He’d been off-guard, lulled by the fixed idea that Tuesday (tomorrow? today?) was when it all kicked off.
The hook had been temptingly baited with the mention of Africa and tropical illness, and, for a few fatal seconds, he wasn’t Günther Hedtke or John Robinson or even Colonel Brooke, but a doctor about to examine a patient.
Someone had done their homework and he’d come off worse as a result. He knew he should try to escape, but his brain was fogged and his body weak. He drifted back into unconsciousness, lulled by the steady throb of the engine.
The next time he
came to the car had stopped. He heard a big, scraping sound that he half recognized, followed by a click. The earlier wakening had helped. This time, although weak, he was able to feign unconsciousness.
With no sight to guide him, he was dependant on his ears and his sense of smell. Wherever he was smelled oily and slightly damp and the sound had a hollow, indoor timbre.
A garage? Of course. The scraping sound was the noise of the double doors being closed. He heard the car door open and sensed someone was very close. A hand briefly lifted the cloth round his eyes.
‘He’s still out cold, boss.’ It was the chauffeur.
‘Good.’
It was one word but Anthony caught at the sound. He’d heard that voice before. He wanted the man to say more so he could place the elusive memory, but the cloth was twitched back into place and the car door slammed shut again.
There came the noise of feet walking away over a concrete floor, a door opened and closed and a key turned in the lock. His captors must have worked out their plans while he was unconscious and weren’t considerate enough to discuss them now he was awake.
Why had he been left in the car? Presumably because he was to be taken somewhere else. Anthony lay still. After a few moments he became convinced he was alone. How long that would last he didn’t know but it seemed likely someone would be back soon. If he was going to escape it had to be now.
He wriggled along the back seat of the car until he reached the door. Set in to the door was a projecting handle and he rubbed his face along it.
The blindfold, probably loosened by the chauffeur’s inspection, rucked up. With a few more seconds work it was off altogether and he could see. He set to work on the gag and managed to get it away from his mouth. He drew a deep uninterrupted breath of satisfaction.
He was in a garage. His hands were tied behind him, but he managed to move his back against the car door and grasp the handle. As the door opened he fell out in an ungainly, painful bundle onto the cold concrete floor. He brought his legs round and, pushing his back against the car, hesitantly stood up.
The garage, dimly lit by two windows set into the double doors, was a solid room built of whitewashed brick which had once been a stable. From the light it seemed as if it was very early morning, about four o’ clock or so.
He’d hoped to see a tool bench with a file or something to cut the rope round his wrists. There was nothing. He looked vainly round for inspiration. The garage was empty.
A sunbeam, the first rays of dawn, suddenly shot brilliantly though the dusty windows. He was prepared to bet he was right about the time. He had to hurry up. They were bound to be back before long.
The sunlight pierced through the gloom like a solid bar of gold. He had a wayward memory of a Salvation Army street meeting, complete with a brass band ompah-ing out hymns and a bonneted lady with a collecting tin. Jesus wants me for a sunbeam . . .
Like the pilgrim in the hymn, he followed the beam of light, inching across the floor. He levered himself up to the window, hoping to see a passer-by. There was no one. It looked as if the garage was in an old stable yard.
There was only one thing for it. He drew a deep breath, pulled his head back and smashed his forehead into the window.
It hurt. It hurt even more than he thought it would hurt and, from the blood in his eyes, he knew he’d gashed his forehead, but the window broke and, thank God, some of the glass ended up on the concrete floor.
Anthony sat with his shoulder to the doors, picked up a shard of glass and gingerly began to cut through the rope round his wrists. He couldn’t see what he was doing. The glass slipped, cutting his fingers, but he managed to bring the shard between the heels of his hands.
The relief when he finally felt the bonds go was indescribable. He sat for a couple of seconds, feeling life pulse back into his arms before he wiped the blood away from his forehead and got to work on his ankles.
After rubbing life into his cramped feet, he stood up and looked at the window critically. If he cleared away the rest of the broken glass he could possibly fit through the window. He took off his jacket and wrapped it round his hand to protect it from the glass when he had a thought. The car.
Were there papers in the car? He’d better check. He opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. There were maps, a torch and a flask in the pocket of the door. He was about to look in the pocket of the passenger seat, when he heard footsteps outside.
Anthony froze in his seat. There was a gasp as the man saw the smashed window. If Anthony could open the boot, he could probably get a wrench or a jack to use as weapon – the chauffeur must have tools somewhere – but he had no time. The heavy torch could be a weapon but . . .
It was the chance of finding papers which spurred him on. As the key sounded in the lock of the garage, Anthony closed the throttle, checked the ignition and air control, pressed the self-starter and kicked down on the accelerator.
The Daimler, still warm from its journey, roared into life at the first attempt. He knocked the throttle and the air control into the right position, put his foot on the clutch, engaged first gear, released the handbrake and crashed through the doors, busting them open in a splintering explosion.
The chauffeur leapt for dear life. Anthony had a brief glimpse of a shocked white face before he wrestled the steering wheel to bring the heavy car round.
There was a ghastly screech as the side of the car scraped along the stable yard wall and then he was out onto the road.
It might have been sheer foolhardiness, but he nearly crashed the car into the line of trees on the opposite side of the street with sheer exhilaration. He knew he was laughing.
He straightened up the car and in the mirror caught sight of a black-clad figure standing in the middle of the road, silhouetted in the brilliant light. Although he only had fractions of a second to take it in, Anthony could see the sun strike steel light off something in the man’s hand.
It was a gun. The silhouette raised the pistol very deliberately, cradling his right hand in his left in a trained marksman’s aim, and fired twice. The first bullet smashed through the fabric hood of the Daimler, creased past Anthony’s temple and shattered the windscreen. He didn’t see the second bullet but felt a thump in his left shoulder and knew he’d been hit. There wasn’t any pain; Anthony knew there often wasn’t for the first twenty minutes or so in an injury, but his arm felt like a lead weight.
As he squealed the car round the corner, he saw the marksman drop his arm and walk purposefully back into the yard. Anthony tried to catch the street name but all he saw was an L and a B and a collection of other letters on the road sign as he whipped past.
He came out onto the Embankment. He was in London and the stable yard must have been an old mews. He drove a few hundred yards down the Embankment like a maniac, aware at the back of his mind that it was just as well there was no traffic in this first flush of dawn.
His arm was beginning to bother him. He tried to turn the wheel and yelped with pain. Intense lights danced in front of his eyes and the lamp posts on either side of the road seemed to flicker in and out.
Driving with his good arm, he nursed what had become a brute of a car along. He turned up Horse Guards Avenue and onto Whitehall. By the time he got to the War Office he was surviving by willpower alone.
Two startled soldiers, on guard outside the main entrance, watched him shudder to an unsteady halt. By the time the car stopped, one had run towards him.
Anthony slumped over the driver’s door. ‘I’m Colonel Brooke,’ he managed to say. ‘Intelligence.’
Even as he spoke, part of him wondered why the man was gazing at him in such a bewildered way. He only realized afterwards what he looked like, with his shoulder soaked with blood, a deep gash across his temple and his forehead scarred by glass. He felt in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case with the picture of St Michael inside and thrust it into the man’s hand.
‘I need Mr Monks. I need an angel.’ He pointed at the b
uilding. ‘Now.’
Anthony didn’t really lose consciousness, but he seemed to be only half-aware of what was happening around him. The next thing he clearly knew was an intelligent-looking elderly man shaking him awake.
‘You’re Colonel Brooke? You need an angel?’
Anthony blinked to try and bring him into focus. Fighting to talk, he gasped out his story.
‘Get to the mews. It’s off the Embankment. Something like Lamb? Lamb Street? Find who owns the garage in the mews. German agents. Tried to kill me. Arrest them.’ Anthony tried to get out of the car but the man restrained him.
‘Easy does it.’
‘It’s urgent,’ Anthony said, slurring his words. ‘Urgent.’
‘We’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.’
He heard the sound of running feet as if from a long way off, knew he was going to be horribly sick, then, as all the light seemed to retreat to the end of a deep black tunnel, passed out completely.
Anthony awoke in a white-sheeted institutional bed in a hospital with rain running down the windowpanes. The rain was such a pleasant sound that he lay quietly for a few moments, listening, before the sound made him realize how thirsty he was. He turned his head and saw a nurse smiling at him.
She helped him sit up in bed, poured out a glass of water for him and helped him drink it. At that moment, no woman, not even Josette, had ever seemed as beautiful.
‘Good morning, Colonel,’ she said, taking his pulse. ‘You’re doing very well,’ she added, after a pause in which she counted out the beats. ‘The doctor said you’d wake up about now.’
‘I need to see Mr Monks.’
‘He’s with the doctor.’
Anthony relaxed. ‘Where am I? How long have I been out of action?’
‘You’re in the King Edward the Seventh and you’ve been unconscious for about three hours.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll get Dr Gibbs.’
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