The Irregular: A Different Class of Spy

by H. B. Lyle

  ‘You need money?’ She searched his face with anxious eyes.

  ‘Nah, that’s not what I meant.’ He put his hand on her heart. ‘Life’s tough, I know. And we got to do what we can, and sometimes we got to keep them things secret. For ourselves. And that’s all right, we can keep it locked in here. I don’t need to know, you don’t need to know. I got money now, enough for both of us. For the future, like.’

  She took Wiggins’s hand from her breast and held it in hers. ‘You are a good man, Wiggins, a kind man. You could drink less.’ They smiled. ‘But you are these things. It is not so usual a woman can find this.’ She paused and looked away. Wiggins sensed something else, the unsaid, rising to the surface, struggling to get out. Bela opened her mouth, leant her head to the side and shook the thought away. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then looked at him once more. ‘Stay a good man. For me.’ She rose onto the tips of her square-toed boots, kissed him on the lips and was gone.

  A good man – he wasn’t so sure. He went to the window but she didn’t turn round. Her dainty, doll-like figure quickly disappeared on the Essex Road. He didn’t know whether to feel unsettled or reassured by what had happened. Bela’s tone was wistful, almost melancholy, yet her affection for him seemed to match his own. What could make a man happier than the woman he loved telling him he was a good, kind man? There would always be secrets, they had both lived too hard for it to be any other way; he didn’t need to know what she was doing before him, about the scars on her back, the absent (or dead) husband, the night-time visit to the German Embassy. All he needed to know was that she loved him. As to the rest, he didn’t care as long as she was his.

  She’d also provided him with the name of his blue-hatted assailant: Nikolai. The body had been dredged up two days earlier from the City Road Basin. Jealousy, madness – whatever the motive, Wiggins had nothing to fear from a dead man. One worry scotched.

  He dressed, finished off a sausage roll and went outside, headed up to the Angel, then doubled back down Upper Street. Reassured he was alone, he bought an evening paper and glanced at the personals column: ‘Fishing trip as planned. Tomorrow 2.15 p.m. Come to the hotel, Winnie.’

  The next morning Wiggins found himself outside the Blackheath Orphanage for Girls. High gables jutted into the sky, warding off the angels. The railings stood like gaolers, spears at the ready. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the gates, even after all these years. Nothing like an institution to make you feel seven again. The black metalwork, the small windows designed not to let children see out. Sal had escaped with his help twenty-six years earlier, and they were still locking up girls. He waited in the street until a small child padded down the steps with a brush.

  ‘Oi,’ Wiggins called to her. ‘Want to earn a penny?’

  The girl, a waif with an angry rash on her forehead, hesitated, then scurried towards him.

  ‘Two sisters, name of Milton. Get one of ’em out here.’

  She bit her lip then thrust a hand through the railings. Wiggins plopped the penny in it. ‘You get another one from the Milton girl, once she’s come out – so don’t nick it.’

  He stepped back into the shadows and watched as the little girl finished brushing the yard and then disappeared inside. Sometime later, Mavis Milton wandered out from around the back of the building, armed with a bucket and mop. She searched through the railings but when she didn’t see Wiggins, she drove the mop into the bucket.

  Wiggins paused. The eldest of Milton’s two sisters had the same innocence about her, the wide-set eyes and fair hair. She looked about thirteen. He closed his eyes for a moment and then snapped to.

  ‘Over here,’ he beckoned.

  ‘What do you want, mister? I had to get punished to be here.’ She brandished the mop. ‘Do I know you?’ she said, edging towards him.

  ‘Here’s a sovereign.’ Wiggins passed the money through the railings and into her belt-scarred hands. ‘Give this penny to the girl who told you. And look after your sister.’

  Her eyes burnt in astonishment. ‘Did you come to the house once, soused?’ She stuffed the money away in her dress. ‘I don’t want to do nothing, I don’t owe you.’

  ‘I was a friend of your brother’s,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to come again.’

  The doors behind her rattled and she jumped back to the stoop and gripped the mop. ‘Mavis Milton, get in here at once. You are to clean the steps after scullery duty.’

  Wiggins retreated into the road and observed the matron with an even stare. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ Wiggins tipped his cap.

  ‘Get inside this instant.’ Mavis hustled under the woman’s arm and the door shut firmly behind them.

  He stood for a moment longer, regarding the child prison in front of him. Was Peter right – was this really a system worth defending? A way of life that made it all right to lock up children until they were old enough to beg. The newspapers were full of the Empire’s wealth – the richest the world had ever seen. Yet on the streets of its greatest city, the poor died for being poor.

  Wiggins’s thoughts turned to the Russians holed up off Shaftesbury Avenue and their bomb. Yakov was a liar, and Wiggins didn’t trust Peter either. But even though Wiggins knew they might be lying about how long the bomb would take to make, he guessed that he had at least three days, until Thursday, before it would be ready. If Arlekin let him carry the bomb, then he’d have the means to stop it and he’d have the means to kill him and avenge poor Bill.

  As Wiggins had these thoughts his eyes fell once more on the sign on the orphanage gate. Under the name of the institution, it bore the following legend: Principal MR R. LARKIN, Esq.

  Kell flicked shut his watch and placed it back in his waistcoat pocket. ‘It is one fourteen. He should be here any minute.’

  Constance pirouetted a parasol on the floor beside her. They sat in the bustling lobby of the Northumberland Hotel. The room was very ornate with high ceilings, marble floors and a fleet of burgundy-clad porters, their brass buttons glinting in the light. Constance eyed the guests carefully, guessing at who was a genuine adulterer (the hotel was notorious) and who was simply arranging a divorce. She turned to her husband after a moment. ‘I understand you arranged the hotel, but how does he know what time? I mean, he doesn’t have a telephone or an address so how do you communicate?’

  Kell showed her the previous day’s paper and pointed to the personal ads. ‘There,’ he said. Despite his anxiety at the thought of Constance meeting with René LeQuin, he enjoyed working with her. She was unnervingly good at subterfuge.

  ‘But it says two fifteen here. Do we really have to wait an hour?’

  ‘No. Wiggins’s idea. When we set a time to meet, the actual time is one hour earlier. In case the messages are intercepted – standard protocol.’

  Constance raised an eyebrow. ‘And who is Winnie?’

  ‘Oh, that was me. We used to call Churchill that at Sandhurst. Infuriated him.’

  Constance glanced over Kell’s shoulder at the door. ‘Here he is, on time. Handsome devil, isn’t he?’

  Kell twisted to see Wiggins striding towards them in a state of great agitation. His hair fell hugger-mugger over his brow and his collar flapped open. He’d been sweating. Constance whispered into Kell’s ear, ‘Handsome, but not my type.’

  Wiggins sat opposite them both, hands on knees. His left leg twitched. ‘Let’s kill him,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This LeQuin’s a menace, agreed? Let’s bin him. I can do it, that’s an end to it. It’s finished. Over.’

  Kell lifted his hand. ‘Waiter, can we have a pot of tea for three, please. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘I admire your zeal and, er, commitment. But obviously we cannot kill LeQuin. We are the British Government, not a gang of Italian desperadoes. Assassination is not how we do things. In any case, he’s a conduit. Bumping him off on a dark night in Waterloo won’t help us in the long run.’

  Wiggins slumped back in his seat. The tea came an
d it wasn’t until Constance handed him a cup that he spoke again. ‘I could do it off the books?’

  Kell examined his biscuit. ‘Is this what they call a bourbon?’ he said.

  ‘Did he kill the boy from Woolwich?’ said Constance and Wiggins nodded. ‘How sad.’

  Kell checked over his shoulder, suddenly anxious. ‘Is this really the best place to be having this kind of conversation?’

  ‘Best spot to hide is always in plain sight – no one gives a monkey’s.’

  Kell had to admit it, no one cared about three people having tea in the lobby of a grand hotel. It was what London did best, ignoring other people’s business.

  ‘You all right with this, ma’am? Meeting LeQuin?’ Wiggins said. ‘I could always dip him instead, see where that gets us.’

  ‘Dip?’

  ‘Ain’t you read Oliver Twist? I used to be one of the best dips in London. Mr Holmes didn’t like it.’

  ‘Far too risky – you could blow the whole thing,’ Kell said.

  ‘That won’t happen. See that fella over there in the boater? Watch and learn.’ Wiggins stood up and approached the man as he neared the concierge desk.

  ‘Good God, no.’ Kell leapt up and grabbed Wiggins before he got there, desperate to avoid any kind of scene. ‘Come back here.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Wiggins said. ‘Pointless risk.’

  They sat back down and Constance looked between the two, amused. ‘You’re like a double act in some kind of revue,’ she said. ‘Or a married couple.’

  ‘I don’t know about that but we shouldn’t dawdle. Now, how long have we got before the meeting? Oh, where’s my watch? I had it a second ago.’

  Wiggins put down his teacup and produced from his jacket Kell’s shiny new pocket watch. ‘Need a watch, guv’nor? I could sell you this for a little bit of sugar.’

  Constance laughed, delighted. Kell snatched the watch back in annoyance. ‘Well, I, how did you, I mean …’

  ‘Once a dip.’

  Kell harrumphed. ‘We should stick to the plan. This is an unnecessary complication, and could place Constance in even more danger.’

  Wiggins nodded, chastened. ‘Right you are, skipper. What’s the plan?’

  Kell glanced at Constance and leant forward. ‘We’re all agreed we need to find out LeQuin’s other residence. His “safe” house, as it were.’

  Wiggins sipped his tea and nodded.

  ‘So, Constance is to secure an invitation using the lure of some important documents …’

  ‘What’s the bait?’

  ‘Is that me?’ Constance interjected. ‘Because I am here, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, my love. I’m talking about what you’ll promise LeQuin.’ Constance raised an elastic eyebrow and Kell suddenly cracked. ‘You know, on second thoughts I don’t think this is a good idea at all. It’s far too dangerous.’

  Constance took his hand. ‘I’m going to the National Gallery, my dear, not deepest Soho. Let’s see if he likes what we have to offer, and then we can decide how to proceed.’

  ‘What’s the offer?’

  Kell pushed his spectacles back up his nose. ‘Constance is going to tell him that her husband is setting up a Secret Service Bureau and that she’s seen, and can perhaps procure, documents that detail various particulars.’

  ‘Christ, that’s a bit close to the bone.’

  ‘But believable. There’s nothing that sells a lie like the truth. LeQuin will fall for it, of that I’m sure.’

  Wiggins nodded.

  ‘It’s time,’ Constance said.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll be watching. I shall be in the gallery and Wiggins will wait outside.’

  ‘No chance,’ Wiggins said. ‘He knows you’re the husband.’

  ‘He didn’t see us together.’

  ‘You didn’t see him seeing you together. But he was at the party. He knows who you are, it’s his job. I’ll go.’

  Kell opened his mouth to object. But Wiggins was right. He hated to admit it, but Wiggins would probably make a better guardian into the bargain. ‘You can’t walk around the National Gallery dressed like that,’ he said at last.

  Wiggins looked down at himself, momentarily self-conscious.

  ‘You’ll have to change,’ Constance agreed. She seemed to find the whole spy game rather droll. ‘Vernon, Mr Wiggins is a similar size to you – why don’t you two toddle off to the gentlemen’s cloakroom and exchange suits. But do hurry, we wouldn’t want to be late for Monsieur LeQuin, would we?’

  As Constance approached the gallery steps, Wiggins fussed and twitched inside the unfamiliar clothes. Kell’s suit was far too stiff. His eyes never left Constance as he idled amongst the sightseers and birdseed sellers bunched around the base of Nelson’s Column.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted LeQuin and then Rijkard, rising above the crowd; a moment later, Constance met them. LeQuin chuckled and kissed her hand. He dismissed Rijkard with a waft of his hand and ushered Constance into the gallery.

  Wiggins hastened to the east entrance, bile rising in his throat. All the calmness instilled by the Kells back at the hotel had dissipated. René LeQuin. R. LeQuin. Arlekin. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? Wiggins cursed as he rushed to catch up. He’d been blind to the coincidence, precisely because it was a coincidence. If only he had a knife.

  Constance was an expert flirt.

  Wiggins found her and LeQuin by the Delacroix, as promised. She knew her mark perfectly, flattering with questions and observations, playing the unworldly wife. As they walked through the grand halls of the gallery, she touched LeQuin’s arm fleetingly. Wiggins watched as the two of them sat down on a bench opposite a panoramic naval scene. He paced from one exit to the other, eyes on the back of LeQuin’s neck. Sweat beaded on the fatty roll just visible above the brilliantly starched collar. It wouldn’t take much to snap that neck. A length of red cord hung by an attendant. Long enough and strong enough. But then he’d hang too. If he killed LeQuin there and then, Kell couldn’t save him from the drop, for all LeQuin’s crimes.

  A sharp noise behind him shook Wiggins out of his reverie.

  ‘Oh, silly me. Thank you so much, René,’ Constance said as LeQuin handed her the parasol.

  They were five or six paces past Wiggins, having left their seat, and he hadn’t noticed. Constance continued in a loud, light voice: ‘No, I cannot dine with you at Goldini’s, René, but it’s very sweet of you. My husband is expecting me, so if you could help me find a cab …’ Wiggins followed, chafing against the unfamiliar suit. He’d almost lost them, but for Constance’s presence of mind.

  Outside, Wiggins stayed close, following LeQuin’s fat neck. LeQuin pushed and jostled Constance to the curb. Buses and motor cars rattled past. Constance said something else to LeQuin as she got into a cab. She waved like an excited schoolgirl as the taxi drove off. Wiggins pressed closer, the road near. One push, well timed, and it would be over for LeQuin. A police wagon powered up the inside of the street, bell clanging. Wiggins stepped forward, an inch away from LeQuin’s back and—

  ‘This way, monsieur.’ Rijkard steered LeQuin by his arm. Wiggins dropped away and shrank into the throng.

  Rijkard ushered LeQuin to the waiting Daimler. Wiggins breathed heavy. He watched as the car accelerated towards Pall Mall, swerving through the traffic. Suddenly, he was surrounded by a swathe of twittering tourists led by an excitable guide. ‘Make sure you stay in the group, everyone. If you don’t stay with us, you won’t be able to claim your free tea and cake in the cafeteria. Monday is normally Dundee.’

  There would be more chances. Wiggins took another turn around the gallery to calm himself, to gather his thoughts. He deposited Kell’s perfectly tailored jacket in the cloakroom, pulled out his shirt and crumpled the sleeves, back to his normal look. Then he cut up St Martin’s Lane and through Seven Dials. A horse reared up on the pavement, fretting in the heat. The small streets around the Dials were dusty and airless, crying out for rain. The city s
tank of drains and rotting fruit. Ragged children sat outside the mean doorways of Monmouth Street, too tired to play, dirty faces upturned as he passed.

  Wiggins waited opposite the umbrella shop, with a clear view. A heat haze crinkled the air. The New Oxford Street tram rattled and sang over the junction. He took a deep breath, crossed the road and went in.

  Yakov leapt up from the table.

  ‘Easy,’ Wiggins said.

  He held his hands up and inched through the door. Yakov’s dead-eyed stare followed his every move, but he sat down nonetheless. The room had gained an army bedroll, a glass bottle and the detritus of lunch. In the corner, a piss bucket stank. Yakov, shirtless, sweaty and heavily haired, looked at him with ill-disguised hostility. In front of him, the bomb had taken a more solid form. It still didn’t look ready, though, Wiggins noted with relief.

  ‘Where’s Peter?’

  Yakov shrugged. He picked up a screwdriver and tipped his eyes to the table. He no longer wore the eight-pointed star around his neck.

  ‘When will it be ready?’ Wiggins asked.

  Yakov ignored him. Wiggins examined Yakov’s pile of clothes on the window sill, his meagre belongings.

  He tried again.

  ‘You’re Arlekin’s tool,’ Wiggins taunted. ‘No master, no God, eh? Just following orders. No idea what for, or why.’ He cast a look out of the window and went on, unable to stop himself. ‘Is that any way to live? Hardly an anarchist ideal, just taking the shilling all the same, with a different name on the coin. That’s what you are, mate, a total fucking tool.’

  Yakov clenched his fist around a hammer until the knuckles shone. His brow wrinkled, his shoulders shook, but he didn’t stir. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the table and continued working.

  As he did so, he spoke in a deep, low tone. Each word heavily accented. ‘I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. I don’t care what you say. You save my brother, so I don’t kill you. Yet. Peter will come, maybe. I am not his keeper. I am happy for things to be as they will be. You call me a tool. I say – yes! I am a tool of revolution. We all serve something bigger than ourselves. So, you stay or go, foolish English. It is all one thing to me.’