by Jim Kelly
After the Ink Spots, Brooke chose Beethoven, the Emperor, the 78 scratched and pitted but nevertheless delivering its upbeat power.
‘I thought we were boycotting the Germans,’ said Joy, helping her mother bring through the food, setting the chicken to one side for Brooke to carve.
‘Not all of them,’ he said, expertly sharpening the knife as his father had done. Claire, sipping the wine, said she’d sleep for a week once her head hit the pillow.
They talked about the thaw while they ate, that the forecast on the radio predicted an end to the cold snap within days, and that they’d missed their chance to skate after all.
Then the phone rang.
Joy was out of her seat before the second ring, her chair falling to the carpet. In the hall they heard her identify herself, and then a series of ‘Yes, I see,’ and ‘I understand.’
She came back, picked up the chair and drained a glass of wine, which Brooke refilled.
‘No news. Not really. Just some detail,’ she said, closing her eyes to concentrate on getting it right, a habit she’d developed as a ten-year-old. ‘The Silverfish was seen two days ago, at dusk, thirty-five miles off St Abb’s Head, north of Berwick, heading east on the surface in rough seas. There was a storm that night, so the Admiralty says she’d almost certainly have submerged to avoid the swell. There was no radio message. The next day a frigate travelling north saw a sub on the surface fifty miles off the coast of Norway, near Narvik. It was too far away to positively say it was the Silverfish. The Germans, at Kiel, have responded to requests for information; apparently, we do the same. They say there’ve been no reports of a hostile engagement with a submarine for ten days. So it’s a mystery.’
Brooke got the atlas from beside the fire and they cleared away the plates and were trying to plot the boat’s course when there was a knock at the door.
Claire opened it to find Edison on the step.
‘You’re not too late for food. Your vegetables are a wonder.’
Brooke appeared at her side.
‘Cottage out at Hornsea, sir. Man with a gun demanded food and clothes.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
By the time the Wasp was on the road Edison had remembered a few more details: the gun had been a ‘pistol’, the man in his twenties, lean and bony. The reed-cutter’s wife, who’d run to the pub in the village to ring the Spinning House, had been certain the man was American, but that was a common mistake with Irish accents, or – given Smith’s ability to affect a Cockney lilt – a handy further disguise, and one he’d used before with the garage when repairing the three-wheel van.
The village, which lay along a lane running down to a riverside wharf, led to a pub. A group of men, standing outside, directed them down a track to the cottage. One man, carrying a spade, seemed eager to take up the pursuit of the felon. ‘We’re waiting for torches,’ he said. ‘Milly reckoned he went off across the common.’
Brooke, getting out of the car, told them to calm down. ‘If he’s got a gun, carrying a torch makes you an easy target. It’s dark and cold; go home to bed. We’ll get him. It’s our job. You’ll need to be up early to do your own work.’
They left them grumbling and walked away down the shadowy lane. When the cottage came into view, by fleeting moonlight, it looked like a medieval hovel: a set of three cottages originally, and a set of outbuildings, forming a rough farmyard.
Milly, the reed-cutter’s wife, met them with a lantern at the door. ‘Have you caught him?’ she said. ‘We’re too scared to sleep. He might have had a gun but it didn’t stop him shaking.’
A man appeared at her shoulder and introduced himself as Ted Brandon, waterman. There was no invitation to step into the cottage, so they stood on the doorstep in the damp cold.
‘I heard him in the old barn cos I went out for the privy. So I shouts out “Who’s there!” a coupla times. And out he comes with the gun in his hand. Said I shouldn’t have interfered. I said it was our barn and he shouldn’t be in it. He bundles me inside and makes Milly get him a bag of food, and a Guernsey, and a scarf, and socks. I was in the last lot. In the trenches. You get to know just by looking at a lad if he’s got it in him to pull the trigger. Not many do, you know. Not even if their life depends on it. They freeze up, can’t move. I’ve seen ’em dead too, in no man’s land – stiff arm, with the gun still in the fingers, and all the bullets in the chamber. But this fella, he’d use it alright.’
‘He had a bag?’ asked Edison.
‘A haversack, over his shoulder.’
‘Heavy?’ asked Brooke.
‘You said it. He had to brace his legs to swing it on his back. I reckon he had it squirrelled away in the barn – whatever it was.’
Edison took a note of names and addresses. Then they searched the barn by torchlight, but found nothing more than frozen carrots and rotting hay. A hole in the roof revealed the moon, masked by rags of cloud.
They’d watched him walk away, they said, struggling under the weight of the bag, heading out of the farmyard towards the distant city, across a windswept wilderness of rough grass, running alongside the river.
‘And you’re sure you don’t know this man?’ asked Edison.
‘I never said that,’ said Brandon. ‘Course I know him. We both do. A student, we reckoned, although he was that fit he should have been in a uniform. We see’d him most mornings. He’s a runner. Like clockwork these last months, since the spring. About six-thirty. He gets as far as the church then turns round and goes back. Runs right through the yard. Coupla times we gave him a mug of tea. Ask me he was on a recce, spying out places. We won’t see him again, you see. He’s scot-free now.’
Brooke walked to the edge of the darkness, trying to see the bend in the river. The waterman was right. Smith was free, and the haversack might well contain the second bomb, prepared and primed by Walsh. Prince Henry, effectively second in line to the throne, would arrive in the city in less than twelve hours.
Edison arrived with two tin mugs of tea he’d inveigled out of the Brandons. Brooke took a cautious sip of the brew. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be a trial, Edison. They say this Prince Henry’s a keen soldier. He missed the Great War by a year, and he’s spent most of this one being driven around in a staff car as far away from the action as they can get him. I wonder if he knows he’s going into battle tomorrow.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Later, in his bed at home next to Claire, wide awake, he’d found himself haunted by the image the reed-cutter had summoned up from the Western Front: the men who’d died unable to fire a gun, cold hands holding cold pistols. Brooke thought the detail was crucial: a pistol. A rifle, a machine gun, a ten-pounder, a grenade – all of them were indiscriminate, the target unseen and generic, the quarry unnamed. But firing a single shot from a pistol was always an act of personal annihilation. The bull’s eye was no preparation for firing a gun in anger at another human being. Brooke had been a medal holder in his regiment, levelling his .45 to place a bullet at the heart of a cork target, or between the eyes of a straw man. At Alexandria, and later on the road to Gaza, he’d fired the pistol in anger, but only over the heads of a rebellious crowd at a railway halt, and again in a skirmish at night in which he’d filled and refilled the chamber, shooting blindly at lights and shadows.
Finally, Grandcourt had laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘They’ve gone, sir. Order’s out to cease fire.’ The barrel of the pistol had been hot and smelt of cordite.
But could he fire a pistol at a man with a face he could see? Could he plant a bullet in the chest of a man whose name he knew? He’d shot at the Turk who’d captured him in the desert in the Great War, but by then he’d been hit himself, and felt he would bleed to death if he didn’t retaliate. Could he have fired first?
In his mind’s eye he saw Joe Smith levelling a gun, taking aim at his heart. He tried to imagine the moment: taking aim himself, pulling the trigger, the recoil jolt in his arm. But however hard he tried there was always a split sec
ond of hesitation, and what was missing was the sensation of the bullet going home, the visceral thud relayed by some high energy telepathy. If he couldn’t imagine doing it, what would happen if he found himself confronted with the reality?
Lying in bed now he was bathed in sweat, which was turning icy cold because the window was open. The sound of the river, unlocked, fell over the nearby weir. He turned on his pillow and in the half-light saw the folded green beige cloth on the bedside table. Inside was a standard-issue .45 Webley pistol, issued under Carnegie-Brown’s signature from the County’s armoury in the Castle less than an hour earlier. Six firearms had been logged out for the security operation surrounding Prince Henry, four to constables, one to Edison, one to Brooke. Smith had, however, a distinct advantage. He’d killed before, and in the coldest of blood.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Brooke and Edison were on the platform at Cambridge Station to meet the train from Liverpool Street. Mrs Mary Flynn looked oddly insubstantial, as if she was, in reality, only half there. She didn’t speak when Brooke shook her hand but clutched her husband’s arm tightly. Mr Gerald Flynn was older by a decade, with a neat moustache, and a smart suit and trilby. There was something of the stuffed shirt about his manner, which was pompous and irritated, as if the trip north had been a mild inconvenience which needed to be swiftly brushed aside.
Outside, beyond the graceful arches of the station facade, the Wasp idled on the taxi rank, newly cleaned, and Edison opened the rear doors for the Flynns.
Brooke spoke through the open window once they were comfortable. ‘My sergeant here will take you to the Bull Hotel. We’ve booked you a room, and everything’s paid for. I’ll need to talk to you both later, possibly tomorrow. Your appointment with Dr Comfort, the pathologist, is at two o’clock today. I realise this is a dreadful burden, but we do need a positive identification from the next of kin. Sergeant Edison here will be able to answer any questions you have. A visit to the school or the church at this time isn’t possible. I think you’ve been told about the situation by Shepherd’s Bush?’
They both nodded.
‘Mr Walsh is still in hospital,’ said Brooke.
‘Will he live?’ asked the woman who had been, and still was, his wife.
‘Yes. But there’s concern about his heart.’
‘Did he kill our boy?’ she asked. Again, the grey eyes looked dead, like beach pebbles.
Brooke touched his hat. ‘Inquiries are underway. As I say, we must speak later. It’s a fast-moving inquiry. I’m sure we will have answers to all your questions. But we have to move cautiously. Today, I’m afraid, we have a royal visit, by Prince Henry of Gloucester. I hope you understand. I must oversee security in person. Sergeant Edison will stay with you and take you to your appointment.’
Mr Flynn looked mildly placated, while his wife looked blank, no doubt steeling herself for the ordeal ahead.
Brooke tapped his signet ring on the roof of the car and Edison pulled gracefully away, down Station Road, to the distant buoyant figure of ‘The Homecoming’.
The radio car took Brooke home to change in preparation for his ceremonial duties. Claire, off shift, was sweeping slush from the path, a chore she’d invented to take her mind off the fact there was no news of Ben. She abandoned it freely to help her husband choose a shirt and tie to match his best suit. Black brogues were polished to a shine. Finally, he stood before the full-length mirror in the attic room, beside the bath.
‘You look like your father in that painting in the hall,’ said Claire, trying to enjoy the moment.
Brooke, absurdly pleased, turned his head to mimic his father’s stance in the photograph. It was an official portrait standing beside the King of Norway, on the day he received his Nobel Prize in Oslo. He’d always thought that if you didn’t know the two by sight you’d think Professor Brooke was royalty. A sense of ease, and even mild amusement, radiated from the otherwise stern face.
‘Joy?’ asked Brooke, tightening the knot at his throat. It was his battalion campaign tie from Palestine and he’d rarely worn it, but had decided it might be appropriate to greet the Unknown Soldier.
‘She’s walking out to Coton to see Grace. Some other friends, too. Everyone’s rallying round. The longer we hear nothing, the worse it gets.’
Brooke met her eyes in the mirror. ‘Until we hear, we won’t know. But another twenty-four hours and I’d say we need to think the worst, even if we keep it to ourselves.’
At the door she edged the coat back onto his shoulders. ‘What about Ben’s parents? There’s a brother too?’ he asked.
‘They called last night. Joy spoke to his father. They thought it sounded like engine failure and that the Silverfish would limp into port sometime soon. He was very upbeat. I don’t think Joy likes him. She thought he treated her like a child. She’s a nurse, she’s got as good a grip on reality as a retired naval officer. Better.’
Claire snapped his hat into place and pushed him lightly off the step and on his way.
The radio car took Brooke to the grand gate of Trinity College. A small crowd had gathered, held back by a handful of uniformed constables. Brooke took his place in the line-up, ready to welcome the prince, a situation not unlike the format of a wedding, what Claire liked to call ‘the wall of death’. Brooke was sandwiched between the lord lieutenant, and the master of the college. A line of students in academic gowns had been dragooned into a matching opposite line, forming a guard of honour.
A convoy of black cars rumbled its way down the cobbles of the street. Brooke had rerouted the royal convoy to avoid the Great Bridge, which had added a few minutes to their schedule, so they were late. This had given time for a healthy crowd to assemble.
As the prince stepped out there was a round of polite applause, even a solitary cheer.
Brooke heard the stilted conversation as Prince Henry worked his way along the line of dignitaries. The royal voice was squeaky and breathy, and totally ill-suited to the large, jovial man producing the words. As Brooke waited, his eye roved the crowd, noting the regular uniformed constables, and, on a rooftop above, a soldier with a rifle, and another in a first-floor window above a bookshop. He wondered if Jo Ashmore had company in her unseen Observation Post.
The college, at least all of the relevant rooms, had been thoroughly searched that morning. The Borough’s bloodhound had toured the grounds. Avoiding a bomb was, in fact, not that testing a mission, as long as they made sure the prince deviated at all times, and all places, from the published schedule of events. If it was a line-of-sight explosive device, operated by Smith, the dangers were magnified, but not recklessly. They had to keep the prince on the move and remain vigilant.
Then, abruptly, Prince Henry was pumping his hand. The man had a mouth tangled with bad teeth, but an open face and a practical, straightforward manner. His uniform was unadorned with medals or sashes but was otherwise immaculate. The buttons caught the weak winter light. He could have been a farmer, or a gregarious butcher. Brooke liked him immediately.
‘Ah. Professor Brooke’s son? I saw him a few times you know – on King’s Parade. Famous then. Nobody took any blind notice of me – or my good-for-nothing brother. I lasted a year. Academic life’s not me.’
Brooke wasn’t sure if a question had been asked, but he felt he could speak. ‘How was France? My son’s in the BEF, somewhere south of the Luxembourg border. The letters don’t say much, but it seems pretty quiet.’
‘It’ll stay that way.’ The prince stepped closer, and Brooke saw that his eyes were slightly hazy, his skin marked with tiny broken blood vessels. There was a hint of genuine empathy in the steady stare. ‘A plane came down near the border two days ago. There was a messenger aboard with military plans. Looks like Berlin’s banking on the same route as last time, across the Belgian border, so your boy will be safe enough for now. Tell his mother. It’ll help for a while.’
Prince Henry rearranged his polished shoes on the cobbles. ‘I’m told I can see a football ma
tch, Inspector, despite the close attentions of the Fenians. Thank you.’
Brooke gave him a nod. ‘It was on the schedule, but we’ve tampered with the timings, so it’s fine. And I put a watch on the pitch overnight. We just have to make sure you’re never exactly where you should be.’
‘Situation bloody normal,’ said the prince, smiling. ‘Standard military planning, in fact.’
‘I can’t vouch for the quality of play.’
The prince’s eyes narrowed astutely to focus on Brooke’s tie. ‘Allenby’s lot, eh? Did you see the Great Man?’
‘Lawrence or Allenby?’
The prince laughed.
‘I saw Lawrence from a distance, once or twice. Over a Bedouin fire, one night. But the legend went before him. He was everywhere in that sense. That’s the essence of legends, they’re insubstantial by nature.’
Prince Henry nodded slowly. ‘Bit flashy too, if you ask me. They call me the Unknown Soldier, Brooke. Not sure what that makes him.’ He shook Brooke’s hand again. ‘I have every confidence my life is in good hands, Inspector.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Prince Henry disappeared from view into Trinity College, the gate above adorned with a rather wretched statue of his distant ancestor, Henry VIII, the college benefactor. The applause died away, as did the crowd. A detective inspector from County was closeted within the college, where the precise venue for lunch had been switched from the Great Hall to the master’s lodge. The head porter, informed of the possible dangers inherent in the visit, had ordered the cellars searched for explosives, fearing a repeat of the attempt to murder another of the prince’s ancestors, James I, but there was no trace of a latter-day Guy Fawkes.
Inside the college the prince would take a short rest and then an early lunch. Later, the planned car journey to Parker’s Piece had been replaced by a zigzag walk, which would no doubt draw impromptu crowds. The royal visitor would ride back by open army staff car, change for dinner and then walk to Queens’ College. A final check on security in the Great Hall at Queens’ would be made at dusk. Before dinner there would be drinks in the new Fisher Building, which the prince was due to open officially, during a brief ceremony. If interrupted by an air raid warning the royal visitor would walk to the cellars of the new Guildhall, on Market Hill. Brooke’s role was to stand by for the unexpected and be on hand to take personal control of the royal prince should an emergency arise.