by H. B. Lyle
It would take weeks to go through all the information, to untangle what exactly LeQuin was doing and for whom. Kell decided to keep it all to himself for the moment, until he could analyse it properly. All except the German one. That letter, combined with the case against LeQuin and the arrest of Rijkard, would be enough to get him his job back.
One item puzzled him particularly. LeQuin’s pocketbook contained figures and letters but in no discernible pattern. The constable coughed. ‘You want to keep these, sir?’ he said, holding up a sheaf of receipts.
‘Of course,’ Kell snapped, his concentration on the numbers. ‘One plus eight?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Is that numbers, is it?’ the constable asked. Kell looked up. The policeman had a long, thin face, split by a crooked nose. ‘There are numbers,’ Kell replied. ‘But I have no idea what they mean.’
‘Do you mind if I …?’ The policeman put his hand out, like a shy child.
Kell handed him the book, surprised. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Stoner, sir,’ he said. He scanned the numbers and letters quickly. ‘It appears to be a code.’
‘Yes, thank you for that. It’s good to see the Metropolitan Police is training its officers properly.’
‘Sorry, sir. I meant, maybe it’s a transposition code.’ The constable started reading out letters: ‘P, E, R.’ He looked down at Kell. ‘Best take a note, sir.’
Kell grasped a pencil and began writing, repeating the letters and numbers as the policeman spoke.
‘That’s page one, sir. It don’t seem to mean much, but I’m sure that’s it.’
Kell searched the letters. ‘Of course,’ he cried. ‘It’s in French! Allemagne – four hundred pounds. Autriche, Turquie, et cetera.’
‘Sounds like a ledger, sir.’
‘By God, it is, it is. How do you know so much about this, Constable …?’
The young policeman blushed.
‘Stoner, sir. My old man’s on the tic-tac. He’s a bookie, sir, to be honest, and not entirely legal like, so please don’t tell. But me and my brothers, we’re all dab with the numbers.’
Kell held the book in his hand. ‘This is marvellous.’
It was the final piece, proof positive that LeQuin had been working up until that very day for Germany. LeQuin used Milton to get the information out of Woolwich, the intelligence that ended up in Krupp’s; he’d had Leyton killed to protect the secret; and Milton had met his death when he was blown. Lord knew what Sixsmith had done to deserve his demise, but it would be in the ledger.
‘Read out the rest, Stoner.’
Kell took down the names and figures with mounting glee. ‘Say that last one again,’ he called out, scandalised.
A grin spread across his face. ‘Stoner, find me a cab. We will finish this later. I must get to Whitehall at once.’
It all made sense. What a fool he’d been.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Oh Gawd, he’s dead.’
‘He’s not dead, you daft ha’p’orth.’
It was this broad Lancashire accent that caused Wiggins to pop open his eyes. The view was fringed not by angels but by whores. A big woman, the madam, scattered the young girls and bent to his side. ‘There you go, love. You best get off if you can. I can’t have my customers disturbed. They won’t pay.’ She leant down and gently cradled his head. ‘Can you walk?’
Wiggins felt his shoulder. His hand came away hot and wet. ‘This suit is ruined,’ he laughed nervously. ‘And it’s not even mine.’
‘Viggins, Viggins. Are you all right?’ Otto clambered up the stairs, breathing heavily. ‘I see the two men, they leave and nothing. Oh my Got, vot is this? You need the hospital.’
‘No.’ He winced, suddenly aware of the pain. But it had the effect of clearing his mind. ‘There’s no time. Gi’ us a hand.’
Otto and the madam helped him to his feet and the old tramp put his head under Wiggins’s good arm. Wiggins grunted to him. ‘Gower Street. Twenty-four A.’
Wiggins felt better on the street. His mind, awash with adrenaline and pain, was sparking back to life, making connections like the telegraph wires strung across the city, the train tracks. The sewers.
Arlekin.
They arrived at number twenty-four and Wiggins rang the bell with his good arm. Otto stepped away. ‘I should go,’ he said, wary of officialdom in all its forms.
‘Thanks, Otto.’
The door swung open. ‘How many times must I say the surgery’s hours are— Great Scot, Wiggins, is that you?’
‘It is, Doctor. I wonder if …’
‘Of course, here take my arm … Martha! Martha. Bring the brandy into my room.’ In seconds, Dr Watson had Wiggins lying on a raised bed. He pulled back the jacket and ripped Wiggins’s shirt clear. ‘Bring the ethanol,’ he shouted. ‘Now, Wiggins, I’ll deal with this first on the promise that you’ll tell me the truth of the matter afterwards.’
‘Of course, Doctor, I ain’t never lied to you.’
As the good Doctor went about his work, Wiggins examined him. His moustache was greyer, a little longer perhaps, the wrinkles deeper, the skin of his neck dappled by brown spots, his hair scrappier than before, not quite groomed. But his eyes still burnt kind.
Dr Watson went on. ‘This is going to hurt, but I can pull the bullet out with these. It may not feel like it, but for some reason the wound is shallow. Take another brandy. Here goes.’ He yanked the bullet free. A jolt of pain shot down Wiggins’s arm, up into his neck and across his chest. He passed out again.
When he came to, his shoulder was bandaged and he reeked of ethanol and brandy. He saw Watson hold up something to the light by the window. ‘Remarkable,’ the Doctor said as he twisted the bullet between finger and thumb.
Wiggins took another pull at the brandy bottle. The pain dulled slightly. ‘Weren’t you wounded by a bullet, Doctor? Was it your leg or your shoulder? I can never remember.’
The Doctor appeared not to hear, for he turned to Wiggins earnestly. ‘This could have killed you. Something must have significantly slowed the velocity of the bullet – or was it at long-range?’
‘Look in the breast pocket.’ Wiggins pointed with his good arm. ‘There!’
Watson lifted up his old battered Hunter watch and gazed in admiration. ‘You stole this from me years ago,’ he murmured.
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘It was a gift of sorts, Wiggins, we let you take it.’ He turned over the watch and they saw the hard bullet mark scraped along the front cover. ‘You know, I do believe this saved your life,’ the Doctor said finally. ‘This is one for the annals.’
Wiggins got up and stood next to the Doctor by the front window. As he did so, he heard a heartily sung anthem coming from the street outside.
‘The people’s flag is deepest …’
‘The Tsar!’ Wiggins cried as he hustled to the front door.
A gang of trade-union demonstrators were trying to cheer themselves with a rendition of ‘The Red Flag’ as they walked northwards. Their banner trailed sadly behind them. ‘What happened?’ Wiggins called after them.
‘A dead bust.’ A young man in a baggy cap turned towards him.
‘Huh?’
‘Six hours it took us to get here, supporting our comrades in Russia. Six hours and then he cancels, don’t he?’
Another man lifted his banner tamely. ‘That’s the imperialist for you. Unreliable.’
‘Grand Imperial, my arse.’
‘A wasted day out,’ the men carried on, grumbling as they went. ‘Should have gone to Wood Lane.’
Wiggins looked after them. Kell must have got the message through. And yet. Grand Imperial.
‘What’s the time, Doctor?’ He turned back into the hallway.
‘Just gone five.’
‘Have you got a telephone? It’s urgent.’
Watson fixed him with a stare. ‘Is this legitimate, Wiggins? You turn up here with a bullet in you, what am I meant to think?’
‘I work for the government, Doctor, honest. Ask Mr Holmes.’
‘Holmes,’ Watson exclaimed. ‘Of course. The telephone is in my office. But you really need to rest.’
Wiggins strode to the door, strengthened by the brandy in his belly and the bandage supporting his shoulder. The Tsar had never been the target at all. Too hard, too obvious – but the bomb was going to go off all the same. He needed to stop it and he knew exactly where it was going. But first he had to make a call to give himself a chance. He held the receiver in his teeth as he wound up the instrument with his good hand.
‘Get me Whitehall 412.’
Wiggins, made lopsided by his injured shoulder, barrelled out into the street and hailed a hansom cab.
‘Wood Lane. A fiver down if you do it under forty.’
The cabby sneered. ‘You ain’t got no fiver. And I don’t want no bleeding in the cab.’ He raised the reins to gee off but as he did so, Wiggins ripped a note from his pocket and brandished it theatrically.
‘I don’t have time,’ Wiggins said, the note flapping in the wind.
‘Sorry, sir. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, sir. Wood Lane you say? Jump in.’
The horse near bolted before Wiggins even took his seat. They flew down into Shaftesbury Avenue, the cab bouncing and flitting. But the roads gradually filled, and by the time they’d reached Piccadilly they were at a complete standstill. Wiggins squeezed his leg with his good arm, fighting the pain in his shoulder.
‘Fack sake,’ the cabby cursed. ‘First the Tsar’s parade and now this? Facking Underground up the spout. Never trust ’em.’
He gestured at the crowds streaming from Dover Street Station. They’d come to a halt by the flash new Ritz luxury hotel and Wiggins stood up in the cab, scanning the road ahead. A wall of idling motor cars, lorries, carts, four-wheelers, taxis and hundreds of bobbing hats – bowlers, boaters, derbies, homburgs, liveried caps, bonnets, feathered elegances and even an ivory topper. A sea uncrossable.
‘How much for the horse?’ Wiggins said.
The driver’s small eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Wot?’
‘Fifty quid for the horse and tack. That’s double his worth.’
‘You want it now? I mean, wot for?’ The old cabby chewed a moment and spat free a tobacco cud. ‘You know, on reflection, I don’t know if I could bear to part wiv him, sir. He’s been my constant companion since my missus passed, bless her soul, and without Monty here – a stunning nag if I say so myself – I don’t know if I’d have pulled through. It would be too much of a wrench to lose him too.’
‘Sixty.’
‘Done.’
The driver hastily unbuckled the horse and helped Wiggins mount. Pain shot down his arm as he gripped the improvised reins. He hadn’t been on a horse for more than ten years but he’d grown up on the streets of London, a city – then – that ran on horsepower. He’d ridden on cabbies’ nags, on the drays, on the wizened old coal horses and the old stagers plodding the Regent’s Canal; he’d passed the time with the stable hands behind the grand hotels, picked up all the dodges. Even as the horse neighed and jittered, he dug his knees in sharp, thrust out his toes and turned onto the pavement.
‘Oi, watch it!’
‘This is a public footway, you thug.’
Pedestrians rippled aside as Wiggins and his horse clip-clopped under the colonnade of the hotel. A second later a policeman whistled. ‘Orf that horse, now!’
Wiggins kicked his heels, Green Park in sight. He veered through the gates and into the park. The horse stretched out, revelling in its freedom. Wiggins clung on, teeth clenched against the pain of his wound, his sights set west.
‘You can’t go in there, sir.’
‘Really?’ Kell said as he strode confidently through the Cabinet Office entrance. ‘Refer any complaints to the Under Secretary. Failing that, talk to Mr Churchill,’ he continued, the agitated clerk fluttering in his wake. If Soapy had any guts left, he’d stand up for him.
‘But they’re discussing the cancellation of the Tsar’s parade.’
‘I know,’ Kell called over his shoulder. ‘That’s my fault, so I’m sure they’ll want to talk to me.’
Kell had gone to the War Office only to find the whole team across at the Cabinet rooms.
He reached the grand entrance of Cabinet Briefing Room A. Behind him, the clerk called shrilly for the police. Kell threw open the doors and held his head high. The room had so long been the scene of his fruitless attempts to make a case for an espionage agency, Kell now allowed himself a grim smile.
‘What the devil?’ Soapy looked up at the interruption. ‘Oh, Captain Kell. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Soapy actually looked amused, unlike the dour-faced elders packed around the table. Even the army’s true overlord, the Secratary of State for War, Haldane, was there.
‘How dare you, sir,’ Haldane glowered from beneath bushy eyebrows.
‘Kell,’ Ewart bellowed. ‘Leave at once. I’ve just been informing them about your reassignment. As I was saying, sir, Lieutenant Russell here is the man in charge now.’
‘Ah yes, Russell.’ Kell dwelt on the name for a moment. ‘We’ll get to you by and by. First, I must inform the committee of my findings.’
‘I say, Kell, dear chap, aren’t you behind this parade fiasco?’ Soapy drawled. ‘You may as well tell us what the devil’s going on. The police are livid, and I hear Tsar Nicholas is distinctly put out at having the whole thing cancelled.’
Churchill coughed theatrically.
‘I can answer that, if I may be so bold. There was an imminent threat to the very body and being of His Imperial Majesty – as detected by Captain Kell – and it was my duty, to the crown, to the country indeed, to protect His Majesty from any violent action, be it—’
‘Yes, thank you, Winston,’ Haldane said. ‘Captain Kell. Ewart here tells us you are no longer working for the counter-intelligence bureau. So, explain yourself quickly, man, before I have you arrested.’
Kell nodded. ‘I have here written proof of a spy ring, financed by the German Government, which stole secrets from Woolwich Arsenal and has been responsible for the death of at least two of my agents. Two men are under arrest for murder; a third man – the spymaster, a Monsieur René LeQuin – has died trying to escape. See for yourselves – the problem is real, it is big and it will only grow.’ A shocked silence fell on the room. Only Churchill seemed unsurprised. He sidled over to Kell and began looking at the documents.
Finally, Ewart spoke. ‘But, I, er, Kell. Um, Russell, what say you?’
The lieutenant blanched. His lower lip sagged. ‘I …’
Kell grimaced. ‘I suggest, Major General, that you put this man Russell under arrest. If you look at page five of this ledger, you’ll see Russell – I imagine we can drop the “lieutenant” now, eh? – was also in the employ of LeQuin. His information led directly to the death of at least one man and possibly more.’
‘That’s utter rot, sir. How could I – I would never.’
‘Save your protestations for the police,’ Churchill growled, pointing the policemen – who’d arrived at the behest of the clerks – at Russell. ‘That’s your man, Constables. Arrest him at once.’
The police hauled the lieutenant away. He haw-hawed his innocence but the men at the table sat stoney-faced. Ewart opened and closed his mouth, silently aghast.
Churchill had taken charge of the meeting. ‘This doesn’t augur well for your organisation, does it, Ewart? You sack the one man who has succeeded and hire an agent of the enemy. Well, sir, well?’ He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat and examined it carefully. ‘Haldane? There can be only one course of action, surely.’
Ewart stood up, still unable to speak. He nodded to Haldane, picked up his hat and left the room.
‘How did you get all this, Kell?’ Haldane asked, fingering the documents with awe.
‘I had one agent left, sir. The best.’
23
Wiggins galloped across Shepherd’s Bush Green, where the road traffic gave way to a carnival of pedestrians heading for the Imperial Exhibition and the fireworks display. It was due to start in thirty minutes, and the crowd was thick and loud. He tried to pick out Yakov or Peter in the crush. The bareback horse with the winged rider attracted the odd curious glance, but Wiggins hardly noticed, his search desperate. Yakov and Peter would stick out among these middle-class pleasure-seekers, Wiggins knew.
He also knew they wouldn’t be there.
Twenty minutes later he saw the figure he dreaded most. Dreaded and expected. Approaching Wood Lane from a side street, he saw the hatbox first, round, striped like a cut cake, held out in front with two hands. She looked like a respectable lady’s maid, out running errands on a busy day. A policeman wouldn’t give her a second glance, except perhaps to note the unusual birthmark spread across half of her face.
* * *
He looked good on a horse. Strange, to see him in this city, a beautiful man cutting through the crowd like a hussar, his head hatless, one shoulder hunched.
Watch them. Join them. Tell me what they say. You needn’t betray anyone. His Russian was perfect. But he was not Russian. That first day in the library, he’d sounded so reasonable, so easy, so rich. In the beginning, he (she did not find out his name until later) asked only for titbits, gossip, general chatter. They met in public libraries, exchanging hurried conversation between the shelves. He paid her little, but it helped. She contributed more to Marta and her family, made their lives better. And if she were going to get to New York, to Sarah, she needed to start somewhere.