The Irregular: A Different Class of Spy

by H. B. Lyle

  He glanced up Hill Street as he walked around the square, saw no one besides an old beggar and a bedraggled costermonger on his way home. He turned his eyes up at the gently rustling plane trees. For a moment, he thought himself back in Norfolk, a rural, unhurried quiet, a simpler life – no spies, no Empire to save, no unsolved murders. Should he go back, for his children, for Constance, back to that—

  ‘Oi! Get orff me, you fat bastard. Ow!’

  Twenty yards behind, under a street lamp, the old beggar had hold of a boy. ‘I’ll call the rozzers,’ the boy screamed.

  ‘I say, you there!’ Kell ran towards them. ‘Unhand that boy now, do you hear? I’ll take my stick to you.’ Kell held up his weapon.

  ‘That you won’t, sir.’ The beggar straightened from a stoop and revealed his face.

  ‘Wiggins!’ Kell cried.

  Wiggins held the boy up tightly by the neck.

  ‘Meet your latest tail.’

  ‘I ain’t no tail,’ the boy cried. ‘Honest, mister. This ponce just nabbed me. OW!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kell ignored the boy.

  ‘Eggs is eggs.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Tight red curls visible beneath his cap, the boy twisted and struggled against Wiggins’s grip.

  ‘Jax,’ he said. ‘Police!’ he screamed. ‘Let me go.’

  Wiggins put the boy down but only to tie his hands behind his back. ‘Shut your cakehole or I’ll stuff it. We don’t have time for this, sir.’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘West End Central?’

  ‘We can hardly take him to Curzon Street, can we?’

  Wiggins grunted and cuffed the boy once more. Kell went on: ‘My credit is pretty low, but I’m sure they’ll look after him for a couple of hours.’

  ‘What’s the charge, eh? I know my rights. What’s the charge?’

  Kell looked closely at the boy. The lamp hissed. He must be very young, Kell thought. No facial hair, and big brown freckles splashed across his cheeks. The enemy stooped low.

  ‘We are not arresting you. We are going to put you in a police cell at West End Central, Savile Row. For your own safety, I might add. You will say nothing until we return. We will not harm you.’

  ‘Unless …’ Wiggins said.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So young.’

  ‘There’s plenty younger,’ Wiggins said.

  Something about the boy didn’t sit right. He was Kell’s tail, no question, but also uncannily familiar. Had they met before? Wiggins wondered. He shook the thought from his mind as he and Kell hustled down Savile Row. ‘You ready to break the law, sir?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s you that’s got us housebreaking by night, sir.’

  ‘Shush, here we are.’

  They arrived at the antiques shop. Kell kept watch as Wiggins clambered onto the roof and then dropped into the narrow courtyard of the Albany’s main building. Despite the electric light, it was shadowy enough that he could get to work. He looked up and could just make out a small ledge in the brickwork that ran along the building, two feet or so below the windows.

  Off to his left, a door swung open and he heard the start of an argument.

  ‘I say, old man, you can’t be serious.’

  Wiggins slunk behind a line of potted bay trees. Two gentlemen strolled towards him. A rakish fellow tapped his stick on the flagstone while a larger lummox ambled by his side, protesting.

  ‘Why not?’ the friend said. ‘We’ve pulled it off before, Bunny, we can do it again.’

  ‘But dash it all, what if we get caught – Mackenzie suspects, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You leave Mackenzie to me,’ the man chuckled. ‘Have you lost your nerve?’

  Their voices receded as they crossed the courtyard and left through the Albany’s exit into Vigo Street. Two toffs out on the town, Wiggins thought idly, except the way they carried themselves wasn’t happy-go-lucky. He dismissed the thought. Two fewer tenants to worry about was all.

  Wiggins looked up again, picking out a climb. He reached up into a small recess that extended up one side of the building’s face and began to lever himself skywards. Propped into the right angle, he jammed his feet sideways and used his hands to scrabble up the brickwork. He hoped Kell wouldn’t give the game away, trying to divert the doorman.

  He prayed, too, that it wouldn’t rain.

  His hands slipped and gripped again. The soles of his boots stuck firm, though, and finally he reached the small ledge that ran the length of the building, eight inches wide at most. He straightened, his back to the wall, and took a breath, then edged himself along. Four unlit windows lay between him and the apartment. His toes hung over the edge, his heels bumped against the brickwork. He stepped past the first window ledge without problem, then the second and the third.

  Where had he met Jax before?

  As he approached the final window, the sash rattled but he kept his balance, paused, then resumed his steady shuffle.

  An electric light went on. Wiggins startled, caught in the glare. His foot slipped, and then he was gone.

  ‘I thought you’d come again, sir. You’ve got the look.’

  ‘The look?’

  ‘Of a tenant, sir,’ the doorman said. ‘One of my gentlemen. Do you mind letting yourself in? I’m rushed busy here, sir.’

  Kell grasped at the key ring. ‘Of course.’ He left the doorman to his dinner.

  As he walked down the wide corridor, Kell kept an eye on the door to their target’s apartment. Was Wiggins already inside? He could hear nothing. Should he try the lock? No, best leave it to Wiggins. He entered the empty set he was meant to be viewing and switched on the electric light.

  ‘Good God,’ he cried, as a figure dropped from view past the window.

  He pulled up the sash and thrust out his hand.

  ‘Here. Quick.’

  Wiggins, dangling from the window ledge, clung on with his spare hand. Kell yanked him into the room.

  ‘Christ,’ Wiggins gasped. ‘I near crapped my strides.’

  Kell coughed. ‘Thankfully not. You must hurry,’ he went on, unconcerned. ‘It’s one window over. And let me in – the two of us together can search more quickly.’

  Wiggins clambered back out of the window and a minute later he opened the set door to Kell. Kell looked on fascinated as Wiggins stared very intently at the objects in the room at lightning pace, muttering under his breath as he did so. He let out a high whistle and handed Kell a small, lozenge-shaped metal implement.

  ‘Watch it,’ he cautioned.

  Kell pressed a latch on the side and a sharp, thin blade sprung out.

  ‘Knuckle knife,’ Wiggins said. ‘Nasty.’

  Kell then found a revolver, a collar studded on the inside with glass shards and some particularly long needles. He didn’t want to speculate about their use.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked. He didn’t mention the collection of pornographic photographs, though Wiggins raised his eyebrows when he saw them.

  ‘Frenchman, or Belgian maybe. Thirties. This ain’t his only residence. Waxes his moustaches. Expensive tastes. Musician, or at least a follower. Cocaine man. Ladies’ man.’

  ‘Anything incriminating other than these …’ he searched for the word ‘… implements?’

  Wiggins shrugged. ‘Try the mantelpiece.’

  Kell pulled out a shaft of papers from behind the clock. They were on the trail of a blasted Frenchman; the man didn’t even have the decency to be German. What were the French doing sending men into Woolwich?

  ‘Ah ha!’ Kell cried, holding up a letter. ‘Our man is named LeQuin. Monsieur René LeQuin. Where have I heard that before?’

  ‘We should skip,’ Wiggins said.

  He reached a hand behind an unhung painting on the floor for one last look. ‘Here. He’s got invitations here from all sorts.’

  Kell scanned them. ‘This is every embassy in town: France, Turkey, the Dutch.’

/>   ‘He’s a boy, ain’t he.’ Wiggins whistled softly.

  ‘I must hand these back to the porter,’ Kell said, rattling the keys at the door. ‘I’ll meet you back at Savile Row in twenty minutes.’

  ‘He’s an agent then, agreed?’ Kell said as they strode back to West End Central.

  ‘Spies. Mr Holmes used to have a list. Buying and selling secrets.’

  ‘But there was nothing there, no documents, no money even.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s got another gaff, ain’t he.’

  Kell clicked his tongue. ‘Maybe this boy can tell us more. You are sure he was following me?’

  ‘Eggs.’

  They entered the police station and Kell nodded at the desk sergeant. ‘We are here to talk to our guest.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant automatically dipped his head and led them to the cells. ‘I must say, sir, that we are not used to this kind of behaviour. We must arrest him soon, you know.’

  ‘I take full responsibility.’

  ‘All the same, sir, this is highly irregular.’

  ‘Say that again,’ Wiggins said.

  The sergeant looked at Kell, then back at Wiggins. ‘It’s highly unusual, holding without charge. Irregular.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Wiggins clicked his fingers.

  ‘What?’ Kell said, as the cell door swung open.

  ‘Oi, Copper,’ the boy shouted, shrill. ‘These ain’t nothing but a couple of Oscars. It’s illegal so it is. Let me go. There ain’t no charge.’

  The cell door shut and Kell turned to the boy. ‘Listen here. What were you doing following me? And who do you work for?’

  ‘It’ll cost ya.’ The boy slumped against the wall, glowering.

  Wiggins kept quiet, but examined the boy anew, the red curls, the upturned nose. It had to be.

  ‘It will cost you, boy, if you do not give adequate responses to my questions. I will have you arrested, properly, and you will be sent to prison. I have that power. Now, if you please.’ Kell tapped his foot, obviously unused to disobedient youths.

  Jax crossed his arms. But Wiggins could see the fear in his eyes. ‘No sauce,’ he said. ‘If you’re straight, we’re straight. French fella was it, told you to follow the gentleman – big moustache?’

  ‘Nah.’ Jax looked at Wiggins. ‘No beard neither. Big bloke he is. Down the Cheese we call him the Big Apple cos of his Adam’s.’ Jax pointed below his chin. ‘Anyways. I’m a runner, ain’t I, for the papers and that. We all’s hang outside the Cheese waiting for work.’

  ‘The Cheese?’ Kell asked.

  ‘The Cheshire Cheese, sir, a pub in Fleet Street.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Jax gestured at Kell. ‘Tourist? Are. You. Not. From. Round. Here?’

  ‘He’s a very important gentleman, who has your life in his hands. So shut it. What’s the Big Apple’s name? Where’s he from?’

  Jax sniffed. ‘Dutch or German, something like that. Talks like he’s about to spit in your face. Said his name was Rijkard.’

  ‘He pays you to follow me.’

  ‘You’s sharper than a box of knives, ain’t you? Is he your boss? Good luck with that. Yeah, I’s to follow you in the day, home–office–home and anywheres in between. A general a day he gives me. That’s all I know. Turned up at the pub a couple of weeks back. Hires me on the spot. He pays on time, so why wouldn’t I? I ain’t done nothing wrong. It’s a free country.’

  ‘How’d you parlay vous?’ Wiggins asked, glancing at Kell.

  ‘A box at Charing Cross post office. I got my letters, see. It’s open all night – in case you didn’t know that, guv.’ Jax bowed deeply towards Kell.

  ‘I knew that,’ Kell snapped. ‘Right. Enough of this nonsense. You’ll be spending the rest of the night here, young man, and I imagine a lot longer than that. We can find a suitable institution for you, I’m sure.’

  ‘You can’t do that, I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Hold on, sir.’

  ‘He’s been consorting with the enemy.’

  Wiggins pulled his boss out into the corridor. ‘Give me the night with him, sir. I can turn him. What if he worked for us, while still working for them? We could lure this Rijkard into a trap. If Jax fails to report, they’ll know something’s wrong.’

  ‘Hang it all, Wiggins, I can’t just let him go.’

  Wiggins held his finger up, wait there, then dipped his head back into the cell. ‘Jax, your ma still living?’

  ‘She’s taken,’ Jax spat back.

  Wiggins grinned.

  He ducked back out. ‘I’ll take him, sir. I’ll turn him too. Gi’ us a couple of shillings and he’ll be ours, guaranteed.’

  Wiggins pushed Jax down the street. ‘First stop the GPO – you’re going to post an all-clear to Rijkard.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘You know what.’ Wiggins whistled as they skirted Trafalgar Square. Pigeons flew across the flagstoned expanse and shat on Nelson, while a policeman shouted vainly at the early-morning taxis.

  Wiggins stood over Jax in the post office as he etched out his note. None of the clerks in the great echoing hall of the GPO saw anything odd in these two shambling specimens. The post office clanked and sang, gearing up for another big morning.

  ‘Let’s see your ma.’

  ‘Wot for? I don’t know where she is, anyway.’

  ‘Take me to your mother,’ Wiggins repeated, his arm on Jax’s shoulder. ‘Otherwise it’s chokey.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘What do I care?’

  They made their way across the river on the footbridge at Charing Cross. Morning shadows appeared, the sun tipped the top of St Paul’s in the distance and Wiggins felt the tiredness suddenly prickle his eyes. He wasn’t fifteen any more. Once past Waterloo, they took a right into the shadowed backstreets south of the station.

  ‘In there.’ Jax gestured half-heartedly at a green hut that stood at the crossroads.

  Motor taxis and horse-drawn cabs crowded around the hut, the drivers called and joked. A furious cloud rose from a snub chimney.

  ‘She’s a cabby?’ Wiggins asked, surprised.

  ‘Nah, she’s the char.’

  Just then, a woman came out of the back door of the hut and threw a bucket of slops into the gutter. She looked up.

  ‘Jax, my girl, where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Girl?’ Wiggins said, astonished.

  ‘And what the …?’ The woman peered across at them.

  Pink-cheeked, curly red hair, harassed, she was the living spit of her daughter (give or take a couple of stone). She held the large empty bucket in two hands, her face stern.

  ‘Wiggins,’ she cried. ‘As I live and breathe.’

  ‘Hello, Sal.’

  15

  Wiggins picked his way through the ill-lit side streets of Whitechapel. Ripper territory in the old days. One case Mr Holmes never managed to crack, or at least never admitted to cracking.

  ‘You must accept it, Wiggins,’ said the Grand Old Man (that’s what the Irregulars called the great detective, though not to his face, mind). ‘Sometimes there simply isn’t enough data.’

  ‘But Mr Holmes, the Ripper’s—’

  ‘The Ripper’s mad,’ Holmes snapped.

  Touched a nerve. Wiggins didn’t tell the others. It didn’t do to question God.

  Wiggins had finally made it back to Sambrook Street. He craned his neck but could see nothing through the teashop windows. Less than a month earlier, he and Yakov had fought on the floor but now it had been cleaned out. An upturned table, a solitary chair, not even a chessboard. He felt a chill on his neck.

  All his work with Peter, the riot in Hyde Park, even the batty-fanging he took from the peelers, all for nothing. It was the only address he had. Wind whistled in the high gables above.

  A hand grasped his shoulder. Wiggins swivelled, arms raised, ready for the fight.

  ‘No, no! Please. Viggins?’ A small man stepped into the light, his head bent towards the ground, hands out wid
e.

  Wiggins nodded. ‘Who are you?’ The man tugged at his huge beard and beckoned into the darkness.

  Through the cave-dark alleys, the man never slowed, only turning to signal him on, half in apology, half in exhortation. Wiggins kept his eyes on the back of the bearded man’s head as it ducked and weaved. Anxiety ebbed and flowed within him, at its height when they picked their way over shit-stench drains and fly hives, only to fall away when they crossed Whitechapel or Mile End or some other road he recognised.

  Eventually, in the darkest, foulest alleyway yet, the man stopped at a small wooden door and rapped three times, waited, and rapped again. The door sprung open. A second man gestured them inwards and they stepped through an anteroom lit by a single candle.

  ‘Viggins,’ his guide said as he pushed open another door and thrust Wiggins through.

  It was Yakov. Instinctively, Wiggins’s hand went to the cosh in his pocket. Yakov had a blade. Were they going to fight it out, now and for all? Was this a trap? He cursed, jutted out his chin.

  ‘Wiggins,’ Peter cried.

  He sat at a table in the corner, half obscured by the open door.

  ‘I knew you’d come.’ He got up and thrust out his hand. ‘I have vodka. For champion of Hyde Park, ha ha. That is a good wound, your eye, a brave wound.’

  Wiggins glanced back quickly at Yakov, at Peter, and smiled. He relaxed his hands. Peter poured two glasses as Yakov sloped across the room.

  ‘Yakov, he said you would not come but you have a strong heart. If the lion fights once, he fights again, no? That is why I sent Malev to wait. Help yourself to lemon sherberts.’ He popped one of the little yellow sweets into his mouth. ‘This is wonderful. How did you escape police?’

  Peter smiled at Wiggins but his eyes stayed hard and steady. Yakov sat hunched at the only other table and picked at his fingernails with a short knife. The lamps hissed. Wiggins gulped down his vodka. ‘They let me go,’ he said.

  Peter showed no surprise. ‘Why?’

  Wiggins took his time. Yakov stared openly at him; his knife clattered onto the table. ‘I’m British Army. The desk sergeant was a veteran. Half the force are, too. Spun him some war stories, Ladysmith, Bloemfontein. They held me for the night and let me go. I walked straight out the front door, didn’t I.’