by Jack Murray
All at once the Bishop burst into flames. Kopel, Daniels and Fechin stood still, staring at the flames, the crackling sounds, and spirals of smoke.
Then, they looked on rapt, as the fire began to spread. Slowly, it moved away from Gordon, advancing inexorably along a thin trail of gasoline towards the car. Stunned, afraid and unable to obey the instincts of their mind, they watched the flame reach the car. The only noise was the sizzling celebrant until the car, popped into flames. A small explosion followed.
Both Kopel and Daniels turned simultaneously to their diminutive companion. Fechin glanced up at both men. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the hatred and anger in Kopel.
The voice of Kopel was deadly quiet, ‘Vassily, what the hell have you done?’
-
Serov rose early next morning for one final walk around the centre before his party returned to London. He had enjoyed the evening to himself but, he admitted, it would be good to have company again. He didn’t see the other three men at breakfast. However, when he returned from his stroll, he spied Kopel and Daniels in the dining room of the hotel.
He walked over to them and greeted all with a smile. His early morning stroll had put him in fine fettle, even for Fechin. It had been a habit of his, even in the deepest of Russian winters, to take a morning walk. Invariably problems melted away, ideas presented themselves and solutions to chess problem were resolved when he did so.
‘A beautiful morning outside, the weather in this country is really quite wonderful.’
Both men looked glum but Kopel, at least, made some effort to respond warmly. But there was no mistaking the shadow behind his blue eyes.
‘Yes, it looks fine outside. You’ve been for your usual walk, Filip?’ asked Kopel.
‘Indeed, up to the park and then back. Very pleasant. Where is our friend Fechin?’
Kopel glanced at Daniels and replied, ‘Vassily will not be with us for the rest of the trip. He’s been asked to undertake another mission. I’m not at liberty, of course, to explain more.’
‘I understand. So, we are just we three then?’
‘Correct Filip,’ answered Kopel. ‘We shall take the train down to London presently.’
This puzzled Serov for a moment, and then he realized Fechin must have taken the car. He nodded and left the two men to return to his room and pack his bags for departure. After he had left, Kopel looked at Daniels.
‘It was for the best,’ shrugged Kopel.
‘I’m surprised you waited so long.’
-
Margaret Hill was also reflecting on what a nice day it was as she strolled through the farm. Three children and two husbands had done nothing to dampen her energy or her love for the farm she had been brought up on. It was hers now and always would be. Every day she would make a tour of the farm, the fields, the horses, the people. All would receive a cheery hello, a friendly chat, and a laugh. This January morning was no different; except in one regard.
She was surprised to see the gate opened in the larger of the two buildings. Breaking into a trot, she became aware of the smell as she neared the entrance. It smelled like there had been a fire. It was mixed with another smell that she could not quite identify.
The scene greeting her was one she would never forget. Not a squeamish lady by nature, she found the sight of a charred body tied to the stake as shocking as anything she had seen during her stint as a nurse during the War. It was partially obscured by the burnt-out car. With more courage than she would have believed of herself she stepped forward towards the car.
It was then she screamed.
Moments later she was running back to the farmhouse.
-
Lansbury and Peel looked at the latest letter from “The Sword of Light”. It had arrived in the early afternoon post. There was now no doubt about the existence of the group or the possibility of a hoax because neither the Daily Herald nor the police had released the name of the group. This one had several differences, which Peel had noted immediately, and Lansbury had also remarked on. It seemed to have more in common with the first note than the second and yet the handwriting had changed.
Welcome to the Revolution! Bishop John Gordon of Gloucester was executed this evening. Religion is the opium of the masses. Sometimes history needs a push.
The Sword of Light
Lansbury eyes peel closely, ‘You first. Why is this different?’
Peel’s answer was clear and clearly chimed with Lansbury.
‘Ignoring the handwriting for a moment, the first and third letters are Marxist in tone. The problem I had with pointing to an anarchist group was the name. It had to be an Irish republican reference even if the tone suggested Marxist.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Peel. He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Quoting Marx and Lenin in the same letter is either an attempt to misdirect us deliberately or they want us to make a connection to Russia.’
In fact, Peel was not just puzzled, he was genuinely disturbed. The connection with the visit of Serov was still fresh in his mind. He had no doubt that both Daniels and Fechin would be more than capable of murder. Bergmann seemed different but clearly it was possible he was a Cheka agent also. In fact, thinking about it, although Bergmann was clearly much older than the other two men, he sensed beneath the jovial nature a reservoir of power which could easily turn dark in a moment. It was premature to link the two stories in the paper, but it was something to delve into further.
‘What do you recommend we do then, Billy?’ pressed Lansbury.
‘We have to go with the Russian angle now,’ asserted Peel.
‘Why?’ Lansbury felt uncomfortable with this. He had long been an advocate of opening a dialogue with the new communist rulers. The prospect that they were implicated in murders in Britain, quite apart from their sickening nature, would make him look foolish, given his highly public sympathies. The Herald had long been critical of Britain acting covertly in the Russian Civil War in support of the Whites. However, this could not justify any criminal acts on British soil, in the eyes of the public. There would be an anti-Russian outcry.
Peel related what he had heard from Jellicoe. Both agreed it was not possible to mention the weapon used to kill Yapp but the link to Russia was now very strong. Like the threat from a republican group, the prospect of Russian involvement in mainland Britain was incendiary. Unlike the Irish story, any proven link between the three murders would be interpreted as a direct attack by a foreign government on this country. This would cause an escalation in tension between the two countries, perhaps worse.
As Peel thought through the ramifications of the story, he was clear on a few things. The Daily Herald had to go to print on the Russian angle. There was no evidence yet to make a connection with the chess match. But Peel felt a tingling sensation which he knew would only get worse unless he arrived at the truth. Thinking again about Fechin and Daniels, he felt certain they were capable of the murders.
There was only one thing he could do, now. Soon after finishing the story for the afternoon edition of the paper, he phoned Jellicoe to inform him of the latest development. The story about the murdered Bishop had only reached him a few hours previously. Unsurprisingly, Jellicoe greeted the update from Peel with dismay. In fact, when he put the phone down after finishing with Peel, he vented prodigiously, about the Irish and the Bolsheviks in turn, causing several nearby policemen to exit the corridor to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
When Peel finished his call with Jellicoe he sat back in his chair and thought for a few minutes. If you believed in coincidences, then you were either lazy or you shouldn’t be a newsman. Peel had learned this from his first mentor in newspapers. It was a mantra for him which had driven his success in journalism. There was always a way to connect events which, at first glance seemed unrelated. Peel wanted to find the link. He also knew what he needed to do next.
Picking up the phone, he made a second call. When his call was answered, he said
, ‘It’s the Orange Man.’
He immediately hung up. A few minutes later the phone rang. He listened for a minute then wrote something in his notebook. Standing up, he grabbed the coat from the back of his chair, swung it over his back and made his way out of the office. Several colleagues watched him leave; all wondered what was coming next.
Chapter 21
Cars swayed and swashed along Wilton Terrace in London. The pavement was relatively quiet, and this suited Roger Ratcliff as he walked towards Belgrave Square. He felt tired and was looking forward to leaving the cold of Britain to travel to the South of France. He was no longer a young man, and the time spent in the mud of France and the chill of Russia had taken a toll on his bones, his breathing, and his brio. A good friend, who was also his doctor, had already warned him against spending yet another winter in such a cold climate. This time he was going to take the advice.
Rounding the corner, he arrived in Belgrave Square. He turned to Colin Cornell. Ratcliff would have liked Cornell to join him, not just for the company, but also because he genuinely felt concern for his friend. Cornell was young enough to be his son and, although unspoken, he had come to view him in this way. Once more he caught Cornell rubbing the back of his head. Cornell noticed this and stopped immediately.
‘What?’ asked Cornell, irritably.
‘If you won’t listen to me, I won’t say anything. There’s hardly any point,’ responded the older man irritably.
Cornell chose to ignore Ratcliff’s meaning and asked instead, ‘What will you say to Aston? He’s hardly going to like it if you trot off to the Riviera when he’s putting his reputation on the line for King and country, especially when you set him up to do it.’
Ratcliff looked at Cornell and shrugged resignedly. It was true, but there was nothing he could do. Kit was an adult; he would deal with what was coming. Yes, it was potentially an awkward conversation. However, he trusted that Kit was too much of a gentleman to make it an issue between them.
Ratcliff began to cross the road when all sudden there was a screech, and a car came to a stop. Unhurt but shaken, Ratcliff continued his way across the road briefly holding his hand up in acknowledgement to the driver.
‘Idiot,’ shouted the driver as he sped off.
Ratcliff turned to Cornell and grinned sheepishly, ‘Should’ve looked where I was going.’
‘He nearly accomplished what the Germans and Cheka failed to do you silly old fool,’ said Cornell, not unkindly.
A minute later he was outside Kit’s apartment building gazing up at the white exterior. Ratcliff shot Cornell a look. He raised his eyes questioningly.
‘Are you coming up?’ he asked finally.
‘No, I’ll see you later,’ replied Cornell.
Ratcliff looked a little crestfallen. It was always the same. They had all been through so much together yet now the two former colleagues could not speak to one another. It was very sad. Maybe one day things would be different.
-
Harry Miller answered the knock on the door. He opened it to a large man who seemed vaguely familiar. It took a moment for Miller to register who he was. Miller grinned and said, ‘Hello sir, please come in.’
‘Thank you. Is Lord Aston in?’ asked Ratcliff.
‘Yes sir, please come this way.’
Ratcliff had never been inside Kit’s London home before. Walking along the corridor, he recognised a few paintings including one that looked suspiciously like a Canaletto. Another world he thought. A moment later, with some dismay, he wondered how much longer this world would last.
Miller opened the door and Ratcliff entered Kit’s large living room. Kit was with two other people, a good-looking young man wearing a tweed suit that had seen better days and one of the most beautiful women that Ratcliff had ever seen.
‘Major, what a pleasant surprise,’ said Kit rising to greet his visitor.
‘I’m so sorry Kit if I’d known you had company.’
‘Nonsense sir. Let me introduce you to my friends. This vision before you is…’ he paused for a moment before saying with a grin, ‘Dr Richard Bright, and this is his fiancée Lady Esther Cavendish. May I present Major Roger Ratcliff. He was my commanding officer for a period.’ Kit did not add anything more and both Esther and Bright knew not to inquire further.
Ratcliff smiled and shook hands with both and smiled, ‘As handsome as you are Dr Bright, I shall form my own judgement on who the vision is.’
Bright laughed, ‘I shall try not to feel insulted sir.’
‘Esther is Mary’s sister,’ explained Kit. There was just a hint of a catch in his throat. Ratcliff felt a stab of sympathy for Kit. It was clearly a horrible time for him and for the sister. Ratcliff nodded in understanding and looked sympathetically at Esther.
‘I’m was sorry to hear of the vile attack. I hope things are improving,’ said Ratcliff.
‘Slowly, Major Ratcliff but we have reason to hope she will be back with us soon.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Ratcliff, glancing at Kit.
They all sat down and chatted for a few minutes before Bright and Esther, sensing Ratcliff wished to speak with Kit privately, made their apologies and left the two men alone.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry Kit if I’ve interrupted something,’ said Ratcliff dejectedly.
‘Really sir, don’t worry. But I sense you’re not here on a social call.’
Miller brought in some tea and put it down on the table in front of the two men. Ratcliff took a sip before replying to Kit. Rather than answer the question directly, he looked down at the two chessboards, sitting side by side.
‘How’s the game progressing?’
‘Well, I’m a pawn to the good. We’ve both just lost our Bishops. I sent my move earlier today. I’m waiting for a response although my feeling is there won’t be one.’
‘What makes you say that?’ said Ratcliff leaning forward.
‘As you surmised when I saw you last week, he’ll want a face-to-face meeting to apply the coup de grace. As it stands, I think we’ve reached an interesting point in the match. There’s probably another fifteen or twenty moves to play. This will provide enough theatre for anyone foolish enough to come along and watch.’
‘More of a rugger man myself,’ laughed Ratcliff.
Kit laughed also before admitting, ‘Won’t be playing much of that anymore.’
‘I know, sorry old man,’ smiled Ratcliff ruefully, ‘how’s the old leg anyway?’
Kit chatted amusingly about his hatred of the prosthetic limb. The conversation turned to the Cavendish family, his two friends, and his hopes for a future with Mary. As he’d suspected, Kit greeted the news about Ratcliff’s intention to spend several months in the South of France more as a cause for concern about Ratcliff’s health than anything else. He seemed genuinely delighted that Ratcliff was taking the time off. The last few years had been an unending source of stress for the big man, a break was needed.
‘I might have to escape London also and join you,’ grinned Kit, ‘When Serov humiliates me. I won’t be able to show my face in good company. Sheldon’s will kick me out in a thrice.’
‘Oh well, you’ll be fine with me in that case in Monte Carlo.’
They parted amicably with Kit leading Ratcliff to the door. After Ratcliff’s departure, Kit sat down and looked at the chess board for a few moments. The thought that Serov may not play any additional moves had only occurred to Kit while he was speaking to Ratcliff.
This was often the case. A thought would strike him as he spoke, which might not otherwise have occurred to him. It made him reflect for a few moments on the importance of talking to friends about the things. This was not usually his way. His preference was to deal with matters practical or emotional, alone. To figure his own way through. He wondered if this was mistaken. If by keeping things inside he denied himself access not only the good council of friends but also those parts of his mind that could unlock solutions which might not otherwise occur
through deliberation. The image of Mary rose in his mind, as it often did.
Those few days at Cavendish Hall had given him a glimpse of the future. It was a future with her by his side; someone smarter and funnier than he. His stomach tightened in anguish as he thought of her lying in the hospital bed, fighting to return. The last day or two had seen signs, promises of life stirring within Mary. A movement of the fingers, a loud exhale of breath. Tiny hints tantalised him. In doing so they made the agony worse because they gave him hope. But with hope comes the despair of waiting in fear. They are like Siamese twins: distinct identities inextricably linked.
-
Jellicoe stood in front of a dozen plain clothes detectives at Scotland Yard. Flanking him were Inspector McEwan from Oldham, Inspector Treacy from London, and Inspector Dalton from Cheltenham. Along the wall were photographs of the murder victims and newspaper articles from the Daily Herald. The mood in the room was grim.
The Chief Inspector spent a few minutes introducing his colleagues from the other forces. Following this, McEwan, Treacy and Dalton all provided a brief synopsis of the investigations to date as well as a pen portrait of the known victims. The fourth victim was unknown but, as Dalton explained, he was suspected of being one of the killers who had either been killed by misadventure or had deliberately committed suicide.
When each of the policemen had completed their section, Jellicoe resumed his place centre stage.
‘So, there you have it gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Three, possibly four murders. Three victims. All unconnected save for the person responsible for their death and whatever twisted reasoning they had for committing such vile acts. It goes without saying that we must catch this madman or madmen soon. We are facing a grave threat that is possibly foreign in origin. This means we must be careful in how we investigate with foreign nationals living in this country because we do not want to create a climate of fear or, indeed, intolerance. Doing so could cause diplomatic tensions which would make matters worse. It’s critical no one let’s slip anything to do with this investigation, either to colleagues not involved or to the press. This will be treated with the utmost severity.’ Jellicoe paused to let the import of this sink in.