The Irregular: A Different Class of Spy

by H. B. Lyle

  ‘What was that? Ah, Russell. There’s nothing for it, Kell, I am afraid. Any operations, agents you have in the field, best hand them over to the lieutenant here – he’ll be taking over.’

  ‘Him?’

  Russell grinned. ‘No need to worry, sir. I’ve got everything in hand. What’s this scheme you’re working on? Is there an agent I don’t know about?’

  ‘There, you see, Kell – keen as mustard, fresh blood. That’s what this service needs. And don’t worry about pay and that sort of thing. I’m sure we can find you something in the Quartermaster’s division.’ Ewart swept out of the room. ‘Carry on, Russell.’

  Russell saluted and then turned to Kell.

  ‘This plan,’ he demanded. ‘I need the details. What, where and when. And who is the agent?’

  Kell stared. Russell’s whole demeanour had transformed. His shoulders squared, his eye steady, his chin had lost its wobble. ‘It’s a strange thing, Lieutenant,’ Kell said as he gathered up his belongings. ‘How the mind works. One minute, you have it, the thought, right there in front of you. And in the next moment, it’s gone. If I remember anything, a name, an operation, I will of course let you know. Until then, goodbye.’

  He strode out of the room, holding the one document that had Wiggins’s name on – he had one ace left. But only if that card came to the top of the deck in time.

  His head throbbed, full and heavy. His body wobbled. A dull sound echoed in his ears.

  Wiggins opened his eyes. He’d obviously been moved to another location, away from the river, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. A thin light seeped into the room from a window that ran along the bottom of the wall. There was no furniture. He tried to move but his hands were tied tight behind his back. The pounding in his head made sense. He was hanging upside down, trussed by his ankles like a Smithfield’s carcass.

  He arched his head upwards. His bound feet were attached to a hook in the middle of a ceiling. He looked beneath his head at the floor. The stone surface tapered slightly into a drain. Wiggins could see liver-coloured stains. Butchers’ stains.

  A roar built again, shaking the walls before it waned. He tried to piece together what had happened. One moment, he’d seen Jax, Rijkard and the hot poker, and then nothing. Except …

  He thought back to the scene. Rijkard hadn’t been surprised to see him. Nor had Jax. The Dutchman had grinned. No binding on Jax’s hands. Had she been scared for herself, or for him?

  A door crashed open behind him.

  ‘Ah, Englishman. Good. You are waking, after a day. I thought maybe never,’ Rijkard joked.

  ‘Where am I?’ Wiggins croaked.

  ‘I don’t answer questions. I ask them. Now you will tell me what you know.’ He scraped a match on the wall and lit a cigarette. The small room filled with the smell of smoke and cloves.

  ‘Indonesian,’ Wiggins grunted.

  ‘Correct,’ Rijkard said and nodded at another man, who stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘This English knows things.’ He pulled deep on the cigarette, studied its glowing tip and grinned. ‘Things he will tell me.’

  Wiggins fiddled behind his back. Damp rope, bound tight. ‘I can tell you one thing,’ he said, breathing slow. ‘You’re the ugliest fucker I’ve ever seen.’

  Rijkard shrugged, bent down and pressed the tip of his smoke into Wiggins’s forehead.

  Wiggins screamed into his throat.

  Rijkard grinned. ‘You will tell me more, I think.’

  He tossed the cigarette aside, hesitated, then slowly went through the ritual of lighting another.

  ‘You work for Captain Kell, we know this. What does Kell know about us?’ Rijkard dragged on his new cigarette.

  Eyes wet, jaw clenched, Wiggins reviewed his options. Was there a shadow at the top of the stairs?

  ‘Captain Kell … Kell knows. He’s planning to …’ He breathed more heavily, the pressure building in his skull, his forehead stung, his leg muscles cried out for relief. ‘He’s planning to set up a unit at the War Office, to …’ Rijkard squatted down, his face close to Wiggins, straining to hear. The now familiar rumble shook the walls. Wiggins sighed, exhaled. ‘He fancies a career in the circus, to be honest … Seen you clowns … reckons he can do better.’

  ‘Ja, ja, I see. Funny man. The English always funny men. But I don’t have time.’ Rijkard stood up, gestured to his underling. ‘Get me the cleaver.’

  21

  Kell strode twenty paces behind his wife. They walked down from the park and entered Cromwell Road. He noted the bobby at the corner, the police box up Exhibition Road. But they were on their own now. Up ahead, a wide shallow staircase swept towards the great arch of the Natural History Museum entrance. Gargoyles perched on its ramparts, ready to swoop, stark against the velvet sky. Visitors flocked around the doors. White calico, boaters, bowlers and summer feathers fluttered in the breeze. Constance had remained undeterred.

  ‘We must continue, Vernon,’ she said. ‘No matter what that unutterable prig Ewart says. This is for England, is it not? For Leyton and Sixsmith.’

  ‘But without Wiggins, without police backup.’

  ‘We can manage. We must manage.’

  And so he tailed his wife alone as she went for her meeting with Monsieur René LeQuin on the steps of the museum. Wiggins was still missing. He’d now missed rendezvous three – Tuesday, Wednesday and a last gasp attempt that morning, Thursday. Finally, Kell had broken protocol and sent full written instructions to the post office box where the money went – outlining where and when Constance was due to meet LeQuin. He’d even posted the details in the newspaper twice in a desperate attempt to find his agent.

  The doors to the museum opened and Kell panicked, trying to keep sight of Constance. She’d placed a huge peacock feather in her hat and he caught it again, by the foot of the steps, fluttering in the wind. The crush closed around him. He jostled and pushed. LeQuin flashed into view, a top hat – the French, so vulgar – reflecting the sun.

  LeQuin’s hat bent towards the peacock feather. The Frenchman kissed Constance’s hand. But then the crush closed on Kell once more. He looked for the feather. He needed to get closer. Out on the street, a fire engine rattled past, bells jangling. Kell swivelled his head towards the noise. Someone barrelled into the back of him and he missed his footing. His hand crashed to the floor amidst the boots on the stairs. ‘Wait, excuse me, wait!’ He leapt up immediately, pushing a schoolmistress out of his way. His head jerked left, right.

  The peacock feather had gone.

  A fly as big as your eye. One two, five six, a swarm. Get them off him. Get them off. He’s dying, Bill. Don’t mind the flies. Reload. Reload, the major cried.

  We got no fucking Billy, sir.

  Take cover, take cover, the major cried.

  Stretcher, stretcher. Knightly dying in the dirt. Stretcher. Bill shouting.

  The ambulance, Ladysmith’s only one, ringing its bell. Ringing for the dead. Ringing in his ears.

  ‘It’s ringing. The telephone.’

  ‘Answer it then.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  The Dutchman swore and grunted something in Dutch.

  Wiggins opened his eyes. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seemed like days – the pain, the exhaustion, like Ladysmith all over again. And now, once more, he saw his own blood. Slow, fat droplets dripped on the floor beneath him. The monstrous Dutchman, Rijkard, cleaned the cleaver against his massive thigh and waited for the telephone to stop.

  ‘It’s the boss,’ Rijkard’s thug called down.

  Northern accent. English. Traitor. Wiggins caught sight of a mouthful of blackened teeth. But there was another voice there, too, a woman’s.

  ‘Fok.’ Rijkard disappeared up the stairs in two great strides, leaving his accomplice with the black teeth to stand guard. Wiggins craned his head. A pair of familiar boots just visible in the doorway, the owner of the voice, the girl who didn’t know how to answer the tele
phone.

  Wiggins kept his eye on those two small feet. Rijkard’s grunts echoed downwards. Then he shouted for his man. ‘Miller!’ The guard spat and lumbered up the stairs into the hallway, past the small boots of the waiting girl, just visible in Wiggins’s eyeline.

  ‘Jax,’ Wiggins hissed.

  Her feet flinched. She crouched down and he saw her face for a second, unsure, fearful. He urged her with his eyes.

  She tiptoed down the stairs. ‘Pretend to give me some of that water,’ Wiggins gasped, nodding towards a bucket.

  Jax approached warily, glancing above her. The sounds of the conversation between Rijkard and Miller filtered down to them, but Wiggins couldn’t make out the details.

  Instead, he whispered, ‘I don’t blame you. But you’ve got to get me out of here.’

  She pushed a cup of water to his mouth but still couldn’t speak.

  ‘Ask Sally, ask your mum. How she knows me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Jax whispered at last. ‘There’s two of ’em.’ She searched his face, pushed the cup at him again. ‘I didn’t fink they’d hurt you,’ she said, placing a hand on his forehead. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Gi’ us your sharp.’

  ‘I ain’t got no sharp.’

  Wiggins widened his eyes. The men upstairs talked on. ‘Put it in my hand. Quick.’

  He felt the sharp sliver of metal in his palm. Jax leapt away from him just as Rijkard reappeared. ‘Get out of here,’ he muttered.

  ‘I just gave him a drink, mister.’

  ‘Why water a dead plant?’ Rijkard backhanded Jax as she went past. ‘You are lucky, Englishman, ja. I will come to kill you in a few hours. Think about that – you can die quick. If you speak. Or it can be painful.’

  The cleaver clattered across the room, into a corner. ‘I will put it there, to help you think. Miller,’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘Watch our friend. I go.’ Rijkard reached down towards Wiggins and rammed a petrol-stained rag in his mouth.

  ‘What about the girl?’ the heavy Miller asked at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I do not care,’ Rijkard said. ‘But if you do her, make sure—’ The door swung shut and Wiggins heard no more, other than the key turning in the lock.

  Left dangling on Rijkard’s slaughtering hook, Wiggins worked the shiv. He knew Jax would carry a sharp, they all did. The shard of metal bent and twisted in his grip as he sawed at his bonds. He held it between finger and thumb but it worked well enough. Miller was busy with Jax, but that wouldn’t take long.

  The rope was Brummagem tat, cheap cord rather than proper sailor’s rope. It frayed twine by twine. Wiggins struggled for breath against the gag, a petrol tang in his nose. Up above, a chair scraped back. A muffled cry. The rope was almost free. Suddenly, a great crash of crockery, a high-pitched scream, muffled.

  Wiggins ripped the rag from his mouth, gasping for air.

  ‘Help,’ he shouted, hoarse. ‘Help!’ The best hope for him and Jax was to spook Miller.

  Wiggins placed his wrists behind his back, sharp in the palm of his hand, and screamed again.

  The basement door swung open.

  ‘Shut the fook up, or I’ll stick you.’ Miller crabbed down the stairs. He pulled at his balls, a gorilla in underwear. ‘How you get that out?’ Miller grunted as he saw the gag, assuming it had been spat free. He crouched down to pick it up, then stepped over to Wiggins. ‘Here you go, matey.’

  Wiggins swung his hands around, grasped Miller’s legs and clamped his teeth on the man’s cock. He bit hard. Miller screamed and Wiggins stuck the sharp in his exposed side. He crashed over.

  ‘Jax,’ Wiggins shouted. He pulled himself up to the hook, his body bent double, but the effort defeated him and he flopped down. Miller groaned on the floor. ‘Jax! Hurry,’ he shouted.

  She rushed down the stairs, her shirt loose, hair wild, and launched a boot into Miller’s face.

  ‘Leave off,’ Wiggins gasped. ‘Untie me, ’fore I snap.’

  The young girl stopped and gulped. Miller was silent, still. ‘He …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘We’ll sort him later. Get this bleeding knot.’

  She reached up and untied the binding on his feet. Wiggins subsided to the floor, gasping in relief. The two of them hauled Miller up on to the same hook, and covered his head with a hessian sack. Wiggins glanced at Jax – Miller would live. Jax looked pale and agitated. ‘You all right, girl?’ Wiggins asked. ‘He didn’t …’

  ‘No.’

  Wiggins pulled the sack tight around Miller’s torso and hastened to the door. ‘What day is it?’ he asked.

  They’d reached the hallway. Wiggins took a swift look around the house and gathered all he needed to know. A drawing room, an office, bedrooms upstairs. He knew exactly where he was.

  Jax looked dejected. Shirt ripped, her red curls askew, her bottom lip jutting. Wiggins wiped the blood from his face with a wet cloth then dabbed at the cigarette burn on his forehead. He put a hand to Jax’s shoulder. ‘I don’t blame ya. My fault for keeping you involved. They’s bad medicine. Now, what day is it?’ he asked again.

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Christ.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Is there anyone else likely to come back?’

  ‘Nah, just them two far as I know. I ain’t never been here before.’ Jax pulled her hat on, tucking her hair away.

  ‘Sling it, back to Sal’s. You got any blunt?’

  ‘I don’t need money for the bus, I can bunk it.’

  ‘For me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to buy a paper.’

  Wiggins hobbled from Gloucester Road to South Kensington. Life slowly returned to his wracked limbs and he picked up speed. He sent a fleet of pigeons into the air at the corner of Stanhope Road and, now at a run, swerved through the traffic, over the Cromwell Road towards the museum. His limbs burnt with exertion. As he flitted across the grassy verges that fringed the museum, he scanned the visitors. He checked his battered watch, dried his sweating palms in his hair and looked at Kell’s advertisement in the paper once more. No sign of Kell, Constance, or even LeQuin. Too late.

  Then he saw him.

  When Wiggins first met Vernon Kell, the man had been the perfect picture of a staff captain – trim, dapper, sharp. Now, his hair blown awry, a shirt tail loose, a crushed hat in his hand, eyes wild as he searched the oblivious masses, he looked broken. Wiggins barged through to his boss and gripped him by the elbow. ‘Sir?’

  Kell started and took a moment to focus. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘With LeQuin?’

  ‘A peacock feather. I was meant to track the feather but it’s disappeared. She’s disappeared …’

  Wiggins regarded him. ‘Think, sir, you must have an idea where he’s taken her.’

  Kell’s expression lifted. ‘Not the Albany, and not a hotel. Constance forbade it. But other than that, I have no notion.’

  Wiggins led Kell away from the museum and into the street. ‘I can guess where they’ve gone,’ he said.

  Kell gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It ain’t far – but we’ll need backup.’

  Kell’s whole body straightened and he jammed on his hat. ‘I’ve been fired out.’

  Wiggins gaped. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve lost my job.’

  ‘Still need backup.’

  They walked purposefully, retracing Wiggins’s route. ‘There is one person I can call,’ Kell said, eyeing the police box on the corner. ‘But it’s a long shot.’

  As they jogged side by side through the streets of Kensington, Kell’s heart thumped. Wiggins gasped out his story between breaths. ‘The big fella, Rijkard, took me to some gaff on Cranleigh Gardens.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yep. Basement’s a bloody mess.’

  ‘And Jax?’

  ‘No sign. We need to hurry, sir.’

  They picked up their pace. Kell noted the open wound on Wiggins’s forehead, the bright burn too. ‘Fiends,’ he mutter
ed. There was no need to say more.

  What of Constance? He had visions of a solitary breakfast, an empty bed. How could he ever explain it to her mother, to the children? How would he forgive himself?

  A police inspector waited at the corner of Collingham Road, together with four large constables. ‘Good old Winnie,’ Kell said.

  ‘Captain Kell?’ the inspector asked. His dark red moustache twitched.

  ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Carlton, sir. We came as soon as we could.’

  ‘Do you have a battering ram?’

  ‘We’ve got Constable Trubshaw, sir.’ The inspector indicated a uniformed mountain of a man.

  The wide West London street, dappled and rich, was the kind Wiggins used to be turfed out of in his youth. Too dirty, too poor for this part of town. For all he worked on the right side of the law, Wiggins was dirt to the peelers. At least, he used to be. Today, he urged the constables on. ‘Number seventeen,’ he cried. ‘Don’t bother knocking.’ Kell drew his pistol as the cops thundered into the door.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. The door splintered and finally broke. ‘Police! Police! The game’s up,’ Trubshaw bellowed.

  Wiggins and Kell rushed into the hall after the policemen. Rijkard appeared from the side door, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He felled the first copper with a huge fist and roared as two more closed. Wiggins burst past him and through a door off the hallway.

  The room, which he’d only glanced in earlier, stretched the length of the house, with bookcases lining the far wall and two matching fireplaces. Constance lay by the front window, her hat askew. Before Wiggins could go to her a pain seared his arm. LeQuin, armed with a poker, charged down a small staircase at the rear of the room. ‘Constance!’ Kell ran to his wife.

  Wiggins, arm stinging, chased after LeQuin. He jumped down the stairs and caught sight of him clambering out of a sash window at the back of a small parlour. LeQuin then dropped from view. Wiggins cried out in surprise. He thrust his head out of the open window.