The Irregular: A Different Class of Spy

by H. B. Lyle

  The tall man stared down at him. ‘I wondered when you’d come back,’ he said. ‘You’ve been watching my rooms. Why? Come on. Be quick.’

  ‘Want a job, don’t I.’

  ‘Do you know what I do?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Well, what have you observed about me?’

  Wiggins screwed up his face. This was important. ‘You’re not the average gent. Up at all times. You get lots of visitors.’ The small boy paused. ‘Visitors in trouble, I reckon. No one looks happy knocking on your door.’

  The man chuckled. ‘True enough, but what does that mean?’

  Wiggins thought hard. ‘You ain’t a doctor but I reckon you help people.’

  ‘That’s as good a definition as any. Anything else?’

  ‘Who you live with, your mate. He’s a good ’un.’

  ‘Really, why do you say that?’

  ‘He puts up with that awful bloody music.’

  The man fell silent for a second, and then burst out laughing. ‘Ha! I shall tell the Doctor. What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Wiggins.’

  ‘Can I trust that you won’t be detained again?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘And are you learning your way around London? That is critical.’

  Wiggins held up a penny map he’d found. ‘I can read and all.’

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Then I think, young Wiggins, that I will have need of your services. Look up at my windows each day – that one second on the left. If you see a violin in the window – the cause of the awful music by the way – then you are to ring the bell and ask for me. In the meantime, here’s a guinea as a retainer.’

  A guinea. Wiggins gasped.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Course, guv.’

  ‘You may need friends to help in your tasks. I will need you on an irregular basis, but need you I will. And make some friends.’

  Wiggins’s eyes shone. ‘Who are you?’

  The tall man pulled himself taller. ‘I am the world’s first and only consulting detective. Now, be off with you before your gruesome jailor returns.’

  Wiggins, guinea clamped hard in his fist, stepped away but then looked back at the man, who had his foot on the doorstep. ‘One thing, guv’nor, who do I ask for, when I ring?’

  The man turned and raised his chin a touch. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

  Wiggins now watched as the retired detective, clad head to foot in white, emerged from the cottage and edged down the garden towards his bees. Holmes reached one of the boxes at the far end and slowly pulled out a shelf. Dark smudges bounced and drummed around him, and Wiggins could hear soft buzzing. The old detective was unfazed. When he’d finished, he strode back to the cottage with the same even tread. He showed no sign of noticing Wiggins.

  Wiggins hesitated. Now he’d made the journey, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach his mentor. The bees scared him. Wiggins pictured himself caught amid a frenzied storm; he wouldn’t know how to behave if the bees kicked off, if they rioted. Would he be killed? That wasn’t the only source of his reticence. It was one thing to turn up at Baker Street, on a case, but quite another to appear out of the blue in deepest Sussex. He was an ex-con now too, which didn’t help. Maybe Holmes wouldn’t want to see him? But with Bill gone, who else was there? Before he could make any firm decision, the back door of the cottage opened once more.

  Holmes, this time dressed in a light jacket and tweed trousers, stepped out onto the paving stones round the back of the house. He placed something on a table, then folded his long body into a garden chair and turned his face, eyes closed, to the sun.

  ‘It is uncommonly warm for April, wouldn’t you say, Wiggins?’ he called out. ‘Won’t you join me for a drink?’

  Wiggins extracted himself from the hedge. ‘You always did have a keen eye, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes wafted a hand towards the vacant chair. ‘I thought it a little early for beer, even for you,’ he said as Wiggins, sheepishly, took his seat. ‘So I assume you’ll be happy with a glass of this cordial, to which I’m partial.’

  Wiggins nodded then remembered to take off his cap. Holmes poured two glasses of the oily liquid. He fixed his guest with the cool, hard, penetrating stare that had been dissecting London’s criminal class for the past thirty years.

  ‘Unmarried, still. Perhaps not a subject on which I can pass judgement. Drinking too much – though not lately – and, oh dear, yes, oh dear.’ He muttered to himself. ‘Underused, certainly. Bored and recently bereft. No.’ Holmes put up his hand before Wiggins could speak. ‘There’s no need to explain, my dear fellow. Tragedy comes to us all.’

  Holmes took a delicate measure of his cordial. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Though I must say you took a lot longer than I anticipated.’

  ‘I was detained.’

  ‘At His Majesty’s pleasure, yes. What have I told you about the East End, Wiggins?’

  ‘It’s not like it used to be, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘And yet still you manage to find yourself arrested for assaulting a policeman. Don’t look so surprised – I deduced it from the court reports, not your appearance. Now, I can understand, better than you may think, the upset a friend’s death might cause. But Tyler died at the hands of common thieves. They are dead, God has seen justice done, what else do you need to know? It is over.’

  ‘I owe it to Bill, sir. You always told me about the importance of friends, and he was one of the best. And I reckon there was others involved—’

  ‘I know, the missing payroll,’ Holmes interrupted.

  ‘And I don’t think they’s just thieves either, there’s politics.’

  ‘For all the outré cases I’ve been involved in – documented and somewhat embellished by the good Doctor – there are tenfold more that are mundane, tawdry and commonplace. And yet the ordinary and the bizarre, the weirdest crime and the simplest murder, at bottom most always have one of two motives behind them. Love or money, Wiggins – there’s not much else that drives a man to crime.’ Holmes paused to examine his guest. ‘They were armed thieves. They play at politics, but they are criminals. And your friend was a brave man. That’s the end of it.’

  ‘But it’s personal.’

  Holmes threw up his hands in irritation. He leant forward and took a sip of the cordial, then looked out across the garden. ‘The day of the amateur is over, Wiggins. We live in a different age. You can’t hope to work alone.’ He held up his long bony hand to still any protest. ‘Detection is a state-run business now. You need to have the apparatus, the backup. Need I remind you that your last effort at investigation left you in prison?’

  Wiggins unfolded and folded his cap. ‘You think I should work for Mr Kell, then?’

  ‘I told him you were the best. He’s a good man but they don’t know what they’re doing or how to do it. Kell has been trying to recruit me for years but I am, as you know, retired. He is clever but he has no idea how the streets of London work, how its underbelly lives and breathes. Yet this is where the game is played, under our very noses. Don’t worry, Wiggins, he may be what you would no doubt call a toff, but you can trust him.’

  Wiggins looked at the ground between his feet. Snail trails criss-crossed the flagstones. ‘So I should forget about Bill and take the shilling?’ he said at last.

  ‘There’s a conflagration coming, Wiggins, and we must do all we can to stop it, or at the very least prepare. There are large and growing forces ranged against us, on the streets of London even now – hostile foreign powers. Kell is doing what he can and I urge you to help him, not only for your sake but for the sake of this great country of ours. Forget about the political play-acting of immigrants, you must fight the countries that are against us. You must work for Kell, work for the Empire.’

  Wiggins squinted up at the older man, surprised at this sudden fervour. He remembered, years ago, the big fuss Mrs Hudson had made when Holmes shot the old Queen’s initials into the
wall. ‘VR’ pockmarked above the mantle. But he hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen such patriotism writ large on the great detective’s face, as it was now, burning in his eyes. It was easier to be a patriot if you hadn’t been a soldier. Perhaps Holmes might think differently if he’d seen the camps of Bloemfontein, all in Britain’s name.

  ‘Besides,’ Holmes went on, ‘a man in your position, if he were to conduct his own private investigations – say in the East End – would be much better placed to succeed if he were working under government auspices.’

  ‘I ain’t no bloody snitch,’ Wiggins said, then remembered himself and coughed.

  Holmes tutted. ‘You wouldn’t be. But working for such an organisation – however badly run it is at present – is one of the few ways outside the official police to pursue your other … interest, shall we say? Although you must never mix the two. If Kell found out you were working on your own investigation, he’d dismiss you at the very least.’

  Wiggins nodded slowly as Holmes went on. ‘Mark my words, the Tyler fellow died an heroic death, but a pointless one. He was unlucky. Nothing can bring him back.’

  They relaxed into their chairs. Wiggins knew Holmes was a kind man, despite the cold, rational exterior. If he could help, he would. The old detective drew a deep breath.

  ‘If I were to advise you to pursue this investigation – and I’m not, by the way, but if I were – then I would suggest getting to know the world. Join in. Go to one of these anarchist meetings. These criminals appear to justify their insanity with politics. So find out about their politics – establish personal contact. The vilest murderer, the most ruthless criminal, the terrorist even – at heart, they are all human, all individuals. Make friends. And be patient.’ He fixed his eyes on Wiggins. ‘I told you that when we first met, did I not? Make friends.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What an age away that was, a different world. You were so young, Wiggins, a child.’

  ‘No younger than half the others on the street.’

  ‘True. You were an apt pupil, though, the very best.’ Then he nodded and changed the subject abruptly, and talked for a few minutes about the countryside and the pleasures of keeping bees.

  Finally, Holmes rose from his chair and ushered Wiggins through the house. ‘One more thing. Take this.’ He handed Wiggins a sovereign.

  ‘Mr Holmes, I don’t need charity.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m thinking of,’ Holmes replied. ‘I fear my already rather dubious reputation in the village will tumble further if it becomes known that my visitor intends to evade paying his train fare in both directions.’

  Wiggins laughed. ‘If you think anyone else will notice, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Oh believe me, Wiggins, more is noticed and commented upon in the sleepy English countryside than ever causes remark in the busiest street in London. Behind these pleasant hedgerows and quaint cottages lie some of the sharpest-eyed sentinels that ever drew breath.’

  Holmes saw Wiggins to the gate. ‘Goodbye, Wiggins, and good luck with Kell. Whatever you do, don’t tell him about your personal crusade. He won’t like it.’ Holmes waited for Wiggins to nod. ‘Good. And who knows, in the future we may be working together again; but this time against a far greater danger than ever the criminal classes could contrive.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Wiggins said and then quickly added before the older man could turn: ‘One thing, what’s that cordial we drank?’

  Holmes smiled. ‘It has a certain kick, doesn’t it? Not quite what it was, but still pleasing. Watson prescribed it one gloomy day and I have taken it ever since. Unfortunately, you can’t buy it here. I have it shipped over from an agent in New York. It’s called Coca-Cola.’

  Kell stared at the documents strewn across his desk. For weeks, he and the department had searched for the killer of Leyton and Sixsmith. Ewart still wanted evidence of German espionage activity. Information multiplied in the form of letters, telegrams, memoranda, reports, files, the occasional photograph and even, in one case, a hurried note scribbled on the back of Ally Sloper’s one-penny paper. This last proved to be an observation that many of the beggars congregating around London’s major train stations seemed to be of German extraction and, as such, might prove a threat to national security. Yet on the other hand, there had been no more information on the man seen with Sixsmith in Portsmouth. The coroner had reached a verdict of accidental death, with no evidence to offer. Kell had no idea why he was killed. There were no leads. He’d even pulled Jones from Harwich, fearful of another death.

  The police had drawn a blank on finding out who had run him off the road in Petersfield. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident, sir? Could your driver have fallen asleep at the wheel? Kell felt besieged at every turn. But not like the heavy gunners at Ladysmith, not a real siege against a visible and knowable enemy. Kell was besieged by the unseen, by a force only limited in power by his imagination. Sir Edward at Scotland Yard had agreed to provide a police guard at the house, but he too seemed unwilling to really believe in any danger. The police had proved utterly useless, except in one respect.

  When it came to apprehending suffragettes, the constabulary apparently excelled. On the morning of his return from Portsmouth, the Hampstead station had called: ‘It’s your wife, sir.’ He’d rushed headlong across London, anxiety-filled, only to find his wife alive and indignant, sitting on a cell bunk at the police station.

  ‘It’s totally ludicrous,’ Constance said when he arrived. ‘These lumbering flatfoots seem to think I broke the windows at Radlett’s on the High Street. Now, really.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go home. I’ve had a rather trying night and the sergeant has agreed to discharge you, under my recognisance.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ Constance said loudly as they swept past the charge desk. ‘I have done nothing wrong, other than fight grave injustice.’

  The sergeant eyed them carefully but said nothing. Once outside, Constance turned to her husband. ‘Where have you been? You look dreadful.’

  When he explained what he saw as the danger, his worries for her and the family, his desire for her to head to the country, she flatly refused. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘I shall stay. I will not be hounded out of my own house by anyone, be they German spies or otherwise.’ When the police guard arrived she further observed, ‘Is this some elaborate ruse you’ve hatched to keep me away from suffragette meetings, Vernon? Am I really such a threat?’

  No, she was not a threat – at least not to him anyway. Kell smiled to himself, polished his glasses and glanced out on Whitehall. The traffic clattered and sang. For all her faults, his wife was not one to be intimidated. And now, at last, amid the piles of useless paper collecting on his desk, he had a piece of relevant, concrete information.

  The leak at Woolwich Arsenal had been confirmed. Bethell at the Admiralty had a friend who sold heavy tools and travelled extensively throughout Europe. This salesman, a Glaswegian named MacDiarmid, occasionally visited German factories as a guest. It was at one of these factories – the Krupp munitions works in Hamburg – that MacDiarmid had noted the superheating of shell casings. He found this an unusual innovation and reported it to Bethell when he returned to London. MacDiarmid wasn’t to know, but such a technique had been invented at Woolwich near the end of the previous year – a great leap forward, so the boffins said, and as such a closely guarded secret. And yet, four months later, Krupp knew.

  Leyton must have discovered the source of the leak, and that supply line of information must still be open, otherwise why kill him? There would be no need, if the mole didn’t need protecting.

  Kell replaced his glasses and turned back to the desk. A newly installed electric lamp cast a golden pool around him and his work. He picked up MacDiarmid’s Hamburg report once more. There it was in black and white: British technology in the hands of a foreign power, an imperial rival no less, direct from the Arsenal in less than six months. Woolwich held the key. ‘If only we could get in there,’ he murmured.

>   ‘Is that what you want me for?’ Wiggins said.

  Kell jumped in his seat. ‘Who’s there?’ He stood up and pushed back from his desk.

  Wiggins stepped into the light. ‘It’s me, Wiggins.’

  ‘How the hell did you get in? This is a secure building.’

  ‘Is it?’ Wiggins lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘How long have you been here, in this office I mean?’ Kell took off his glasses again. He tried to sound haughty, schoolmasterish, to cover his shock.

  ‘Just arrived,’ Wiggins replied. ‘Should I sit?’

  Kell gestured to the chair opposite. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘You was busy talking to yourself.’ Wiggins slumped into the high-backed chair and looked carefully about him. ‘And I’m used to getting around unnoticed, like.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Kell draped a newspaper over the documents on his desk and sat down. He took a deep breath, placed his fingers together and counted to ten in his head. Wiggins slouched in the chair, his hair longer than at the funeral, his chin stubbled. Kell was struck once more by his startling blue eyes, so at odds with the black hair. ‘I do not approve of trespass,’ Kell said at last. ‘But I will admit that I’m impressed. Is this the kind of, er, unusual skill you learnt whilst working for Mr Holmes?’

  Wiggins brushed an idle hand across his leg. ‘Where I come from, you wasn’t worth nothing if you couldn’t get into a place like this.’

  ‘It’s a good job you’re not criminally inclined.’

  ‘As far as Mr Holmes knows anyway.’

  Kell frowned sharply. ‘I take it you’ve had a change of heart? Are you looking for a job now?’ Kell shuffled paper absently. Wiggins could be the break he needed – a rough, working-class man rather than the long-boned twits he was presently forced to rely on. But he hadn’t forgotten Wiggins’s drunken appearance at the funeral. ‘Are you sober?’ he said.

  Wiggins hesitated. ‘I haven’t had a drink in months.’

  Kell looked over his glasses at him for a long time, but Wiggins seemed sincere.

  ‘What’s the job?’

  ‘I can’t tell you much, until you agree,’ Kell said. Wiggins nodded, a diffident flinch. ‘Excellent,’ Kell went on, his bounce returning. ‘We’ll talk about pay in a moment. I take it you have somewhere to stay this evening?’