by Mark Jackson
“Remember, you’ve gone AWOL. Trust no one. The three of you must act quickly, but with caution. I’ll get word to you at the Bull and Bush, and McDonald, thank you for coming to me. I’ll get word to you tomorrow.”
McDonald nodded. Laird extended his hand. McDonald shook it with pride.
“Thank you, sir,” said McDonald.
Laird’s grip tightened. “Bydand.”
The regimental motto of the Gordon Highlanders: Steadfast and Endure.
McDonald held the grip and the gaze.
“Bydand.” They would face this together.
Laird rang a small bell. Campbell appeared with another manservant, Argyle, a narrow mean-faced sikh, slighter than his compatriot and younger.
Laird nodded to McDonald, as he left.
Laird was peering through the lace netting, watching as McDonald crossed the road. His lordship looked thoughtful. Campbell was waiting by the door.
“I’m going to my Club, Campbell.”
Campbell gave the barest of nods.
“Do you remember McDonald?”
Campbell’s nod was slow, given with almost an exaggerated care.
“Yes, sir, of the Gordons, sir.”
“His father was one of our ghillies at Glengoyne, later head gamekeeper. Damn fine shot. Always shot to kill.”
Campbell passed Lord Laird his hat, gloves and cane.
Thomas had laid out his findings on his bed. Although his room at the Royal Hospital was small and cramped, Thomas found it comfortable. As a soldier, yeoman warder or in his present position, Thomas’s needs had always been simple and Spartan.
Thomas laid his pipe on the arm of his straight-backed wooden chair and started to unbutton his red jacket. Thomas paused to pick up a piece of paper. He studied it for a couple of seconds. Satisfied, he eased off his tunic.
Battle, Keilty and Jack were sitting at a small table, drinks in front of them.
Battle was exasperated.
“You don’t know of any others, Jack? Either side of the river.”
Jack pursed his lips.
“Na, nothing. I’ll put out the word, Tommy.”
Battle stood. Keilty followed.
“The Bull and Bush, Jack,” said Battle.
Jack nodded.
The door to Jack’s den opened. The barman stood aside for Battle and Keilty as they stepped out. The barman cast them a strange look and closed the door. Dave, sitting holding his head, gave the pair a more hostile look. As Battle and Keilty walked away, the Irishman turned to Battle.
“Think he’ll find anything?”
Battle paused for a second.
“This is his manor. If there’s a sniff, he’ll find it.”
Keilty nodded, almost to himself, as they stepped into the London gloom.
“If they’re in his manor.”
Thomas, now in a tweed suit, pulled on a dark coat. He drew aside his jacket, revealing the smooth curved handle of a weapon. Thomas tugged on a cap and reached to turn off the light. He, too, was going AWOL.
Poised, in the black recess of a warehouse doorway, Skinstad edged closer to the wall. Across the street, two police constables were on patrol, clapping their hands to ward off the chill. Skinstad watched them. He’d heard them before he’d spied them. The policemen stopped in front of the warehouse, where Kruger and his men were working. The officers were holding a muted discussion. They moved apart as though circling the warehouse.
“Night, Fred!” The other officer raised his hand in farewell.
Skinstad was too far away to hear the words. He slipped a blade into his hand.
The Bull and Bush was a building of faded pomp and scant glory. A tall, three-story public house that stood on the corner where, strangely, three streets met. The curved façade added to its air of welcome, although both its door and windows looked bleached, weathered and uncared for. It was a pub now past its prime.
All three streets that led to it were still. Yet the vicinity was not deserted.
A police van was emptying of officers. Two military policemen were with them.
A black car pulled up. Two senior police officers and a man in smart civilian dress began to climb out. The Commissioner of Police, a stout red-faced man, Inspector Reeves, slimmer and fitter looking than his commanding officer and Sir Charles Everett, who looked agitated.
“How good is your information, Commissioner?”
The Commissioner signalled to his subordinate and Reeves took his cue.
“It was an anonymous call, sir. Simply said that the three warders, who had disappeared from the Tower, were in the Bull and Bush.
“There are only two such named premises in the city, sir. The other one is being raided…” Reeves glanced at his watch. “… just about now, sir.”
Sir Charles grunted.
“Very good. Carry on, Inspector.”
The police officer began to turn away, but Sir Charles had not finished.
“Inspector, there’s to be no mess. We need to know why these men went AWOL. There could be a lot more at stake if we don’t,” Sir Charles watched Reeves walk towards the corner pub. “They must know something.”
In a small dingy room in the Bull and Bush, McDonald was asleep. His eyes opened. Instantly alert, he could feel the warning prang between his shoulder blades.
Police Sergeant Larry Tucker, a blunt-faced bruiser, waved a squad of constables into place. They were carrying sledgehammers. Across the road, soldiers had taken up position, their rifles trained on the upstairs windows.
The sergeant held up his hand, waiting. He looked across the street. Inspector Reeves nodded to him. The sergeant dropped his hand.
The pub’s door caved in.
Police constables kicked their way in, trying to avoid the jagged splinters as the door gave way under the assault. The sergeant directed them either side of the bar and pointed upstairs. The officers rushed to obey.
A thin wire, invisible to all but careful eyes, was stretched across the top of the first flight of stairs, about six inches from the floorboards. The police charged up the stairs. A large polished boot caught the wire. The leading officer went down heavily, the crack of a bone breaking his fall.
There was a pile up on the stairs.
Sergeant Tucker was furious.
“What the flamin’ hell…? Move it!” he hissed.
The police scrambled up the stairs.
The door to McDonald’s room crashed open. Two officers charged in. One checked the wardrobe, the other beneath the bed with his boot.
“Nothing here, sarge,” reported the first Constable.
Sergeant Tucker urged them on.
“Upstairs. Move it!”
Police officers dashed along the hallway. Two shoulders together, they barged into another room. Along the corridor, two more officers had got hold of a seedy-looking man in his nightclothes.
Tucker shook his head. This was plainly not who they had come for.
“Take him downstairs.”
The man was struggling.
“What the devil…? This is my pub,” said the enraged landlord.
Tucker leaned in close to the man.
“Shut up. You’re for the high jump.” Tucker was already turning away.
“What…?” The landlord was confused, a bruising mixture of shock, interrupted sleep and the fear of the truncheon in his ribs.
A dazed woman was dragged out of a door by more officers. A half-dressed man was pulled out of the same room. Both were protesting.
Tucker turned back to the innkeeper.
“We’ll start with harbouring known criminals,” Tucker’s smile had no mirth in it.
The sergeant cast an eye at the woman as she was manhandled down the stairs. She glowered at him.
“But perhaps we’ll have to look in to other illegal activities. Get this squealing pig out of here.” Tucker pointed at the distressed woman and turned away. He had other quarry.
Tucker continued his journey upstairs.
/> Two officers reached the top floor. Both were short of breath. A small attic style door was slightly ajar. The officers looked at each other, tightened the grips on their truncheons and nodded to each other. Gathering courage.
The leading officer pushed the door open and walked in, onto a fist.
Battle skipped out as if in the boxing ring. Behind him, Keilty was climbing out of a skylight. Mac’s face appeared above the skylight.
“What in heaven’s name is he doing?” Mac asked Keilty.
Keilty looked back through the door. Battle delivered a second blow to the first policeman’s midriff. He went down. Battle faced his colleague.
The constable readied himself.
“Right, no more of that malarkey.” But he sounded already beaten.
He looked at Battle. The old soldier altered his stance and edged forward.
Keilty swung down from the skylight.
“Tommy. For heaven’s sake.”
The policeman looked uncertain. He glanced behind Battle, who had his guard up.
“Sarge! Up…”
Battle caught him with a straight jab. The policeman’s head snapped back. As he tried to regain his balance, Battle followed the combination through and the officer fell back crashing through the banister.
“Tommy!” Keilty grabbed hold of Battle.
Battle looked down as the officer landed on his colleagues crammed below. He gave a satisfied smile. He wasn’t losing his touch.
Sergeant Tucker looked down at the sprawled mass of limbs and uniforms, where the falling officer landed.
Tucker stared at the twisted carnage at his feet.
“Damn.”
He looked up.
Battle stared back down and offered Tucker a mocking salute.
“Get them!” roared the sergeant, stepping over the injured men.
Battle pulled himself out of the skylight. Keilty was already at the edge of the roof, a small wooden case in his hand. McDonald was balanced on another rooftop. He waved them on.
The officers reached the top landing. They charged for the door. The officer, whom Battle had poleaxed, was trying to rise, a mouth full of blood, he was groping for balance.
Battle slid down a roof and leapt onto another building. He landed in a heap, moaning. Keilty turned back and urged him to hurry.
An old bed and a wardrobe blocked the door to the attic room. The furniture moved slightly as the door was hit from the other side.
In the street below, Reeves was growing impatient. He looked at the landlord and the other people detained in the raid.
He tapped his watch. He looked across to the junction, where Sir Charles’s car was waiting.
Reeves’s earlier calm was cracking.
“What’s taking so long?” the Inspector turned to a nearby constable. “Get in there. Find Sergeant Tucker and find out what’s happening.”
The wardrobe and the narrow bed finally gave and a police officer forced his way in. The only light in the room was from the skylight. The bed and wardrobe were pushed aside. Sergeant Tucker barged in. One look was enough. “Thompson, May, Sims. The roof. Beattie, downstairs to the Inspector. Tell him they’re on the roof. Move it man. Ryan, Hollis, get out there,” Tucker ran his hand over his face. Someone was going to pay for this and Tucker suspected he knew who it was going to be.
The sergeant began to move back out of the small attic room.
“You two, stay there,” he snapped.
As Tucker emerged from the attic room, he spared a thought for the young constable, who was fingering a loose tooth. His expression tightened. He stepped up to the smashed balcony.
Tucker’s frustration burst.
“They’re on the roof. Get out and fan out. Now!” he shouted.
He looked again at the injured constable. The young policeman looked up at him and grimaced.
Tucker’s expression softened slightly.
“We’ll get them, son.”
Chapter Six
Council of War
McDonald shimmied down a drainpipe. He looked up. Keilty’s head appeared above him, gauging the drop. He swung a leg over the edge.
Police officers were dashing out of the Bull and Bush. The Inspector looked flustered. He pointed at the prison wagon.
Reeves was shouting orders wildly now.
“Get them out of here! Spread out!”
He turned to another officer.
“Get on to the station. We need to close this area off.”
The Inspector turned as Sergeant Tucker appeared. Behind him, an officer was bleeding profusely, helped along by his colleagues.
Reeves slapped his cane against his leg.
“Ruddy hell.”
The Commissioner looked at his watch. He was still seated in the vehicle with Sir Charles.
“It would seem the birds have flown, Sir Charles.”
Sir Charles was slowly fingering his cane. He looked up at the Commissioner.
His stare was dark, his words hung with threat.
“These men are our only clue. The state opening of Parliament is only a week away. What do you think will happen when the king fails to wear the Imperial State Crown then?
“Reputations are won and lost in times like these, Commissioner.”
Battle dropped to the ground with a dull thud. He was breathing heavily and rubbing his back. McDonald and Keilty looked at him balefully.
Mac stood over the stocky Londoner.
“Think with your feet in future, not your fists.”
Battle pulled a face. He looked at Keilty for support and got none.
McDonald looked about to say more, but changed his mind.
“Right. Let’s get out of here.”
The trio turned as a milk cart rounded the corner. They froze. They knew they could not afford to be seen.
“Holy…” Keilty glanced at the others.
Battle gave Keilty and Mac a smile.
“Ever hijacked a milk cart?” He chuckled ready to launch himself at the milkman.
The three waited, as the cart, pulled by one horse, approached. The trio tensed.
Keilty spoke quietly.
“He’s bound to remember three men at this hour of the morning.”
McDonald nodded.
As the cart drew up and stopped, the milkman hailed them.
“Lovely day for going Absent Without Leave.”
Shock, then relief, in quick succession, registered on the others’ faces. Thomas grinned at their astonishment.
Thomas’s orders were quick and decisive.
“Mac, you hop in. You two can walk. Two streets down there’s a bus depot. Get on whichever bus is leaving. The first one. We’ll meet tonight. At your nephew’s place, Tommy,” he said.
Battle was still trying to recover from Thomas’s appearance.
“Jack’s place. Right.”
McDonald climbed on to the cart, but Keilty did not move.
“One more thing, Doubtin’. Have you got any change for the bus?”
Thomas scowled. He dug and threw them a coin. Keilty caught it and bit it, as Thomas led the cart away. Battle and Keilty turned and walked the other away. The cart moved on.
“Where are you going?” asked Mac as he climbed aboard.
“Relax. You and I need to talk. Put the overall on. You’re sitting on it.”
The cart swung around the corner, as McDonald hauled on the clothing. Policemen were running further down the road. Inspector Reeves was standing at the police car talking rapidly to the occupants. The Inspector turned and watched the slow moving milk cart for a moment.
Nothing unusual in that. Reeves turned back to the confusion behind him.
The cart began to turn away from the Bull and Bush junction, but McDonald had questions.
“How did you know?”
Thomas shook his head.
“Later.”
McDonald risked a quick glance back at the frantic activity surrounding the pub.
Two police
officers were walking at the side of the road. The milk cart drew level with them and Thomas leaned out of his cab.
“What’s all the commotion about, officer?” His voice a London drawl.
The older constable pointed up the street.
“Escaped convicts.”
Thomas looked impressed.
“Hope you catch ‘em, son.”
The officers nodded back and continued their walk. McDonald looked across at Thomas. Thomas looked back nonchalantly.
“I won’t tell you again, RSM McDonald. Get those whiskers off, else you’ll wind up back in the Bloody Tower,” Thomas’s words were darkly Welsh.
Two men were hauling a weight out from the dark water of the Thames. They struggled to handle the dead bulk. They pulled it up on to steps that disappeared into the murky river.
The effort to drag it up the steps was considerable. At the top, they let the body fall. It was encased in dark blue. The empty eyes of the dead police constable stared straight past them.
“Christ. It’s a Peeler.” One turned away to retch.
In the warehouse, with the tall shutters pressed closed, work went on under the dull glow of oil lanterns.
The Boers were loading large crates onto a railway carriage. It was back-breaking work, with Sturm directing operations. He stood in the centre of the warehouse drenched in sweat like a foreman in Hell.
Skinstad was the only one not working. He was sitting on a box, smoking and sipping a hot drink from a tin mug.
A shadow fell over him.
Kruger’s face was tight, as he dropped a newspaper at Skinstad’s feet. Kruger’s tone was quizzical, but there were shadows in it.
“Was it necessary?”
Skinstad looked at the paper. ‘Policeman murdered in East End’.
Skinstad shrugged.
“I dumped him in the river. The current should have taken him miles away.”
Kruger’s stare was iron. Hard and brutal.
“It did. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Kruger turned away. Skinstad raised his tin mug in a mocking toast. Sensing trouble, Van Sturm looked across at Skinstad. Van Sturm knew he would have to keep an eye on that one.
Thomas was leaning back against the low railing of a majestic bandstand. The brightly-coloured round, wooden structure sat comfortably in the middle of a small lush park. A picturesque playground for the gentry. It was a tranquil, almost sleepy, setting.