by Mark Jackson
There was nothing relaxed about Mac. He was pacing furiously, walking in circles as he spoke; his words rough.
“It canna be. You’re talking rubbish. He saved my life. Got the DSO.” The Distinguished Service Order was awarded to officers for courage in combat.
McDonald was shaking his head as he prowled.
McDonald stopped and faced his friend.
“No. You’ve read a few historical, hysterical reports from 26 years ago and got hysterical yourself. You’re clutching at straws, Evan.”
Thomas studied McDonald intensely, but his voice was reasoned, cold.
“It all fits. Yes, he saved your life. He had to. He’d led the Boers right onto the Gordons. He needed you. You gave him his cover.”
McDonald’s face was colouring; hardening.
“No. No. He was riding on when they came over the ridge. He didn’t need to come back for me. He could have ridden on and left Robbo and me to hold them off. That’s what any other officer would have done. No.” Mac planted his feet.
Thomas tried again.
“How long after you had pegged the first two Boers did the others come over the hill? Five minutes, 10 minutes? How long Mac? He is about to leave the two of you, head to your brigade’s encampment when the Boers come over the hill. Yes, he could have left you to die, but what if you had lived? Lived to tell, how, in his wake, came 200 Boers.
McDonald rejected this.
“He came back for Robbo and me.”
Thomas’s face was bleak.
“No. He came back for just one of you, someone who would vouch-safe him. Patch the holes in his story. I’ve read the reports, Mac.
“Laird said that he was on intelligence gathering for General McIntyre, but McIntyre’s entire force was wiped out by snipers, caught in the Veldt.
“Yet Laird pops up, 200 miles away, fresh as a daisy, with a small army of Afrikaners on his tail.
“Think about it. Open your eyes.”
Looking out over the wide cultivated parkland, McDonald was reliving the day.
Boer horsemen were streaming over the far ridge.
“Christ, we’re cooked.” he said.
A shot rang out. Robertson crumpled. Mac raised his rifle and fired back. He bent down, but his colleague was dead.
Laird shouted at McDonald.
“Here McDonald. Hurry man!”
McDonald swung round. Laird was reaching down for him. The officer hauled Mac on to the back of his saddle and kicked his mount forward.
Mac was standing with his head in his hands. He looked across at Thomas; his expression one of near loathing.
“What is it with you?” Mac spat the words.
Thomas stared back.
“I’m right.”
McDonald straightened up. It was a faintly menacing movement between these old comrades.
“And I know different. We should be concentrating on finding the jewels, not looking for scapegoats for our own failures.”
The two friends stared at each other. Thomas stepped closer.
“And what about his mother being born in South Africa? Does that make no difference to you?”
McDonald’s face was granite.
Thomas held up a palm.
“All right, Mac. Have it your way. But remember what I’ve said. The others have to know.”
McDonald snorted.
“They’ll laugh in your face.”
Thomas was not finished.
“Perhaps, but think on this. How did Laird’s horse outrun the Boers, with two on his back?”
Thomas swung away. Mac was left to watch him, as the slender Welshman stepped down from the bright bandstand and walked slowly across the gentle park.
In his cramped stuffy office at New Scotland Yard, Reeves was pouring over a map of London, his finger on the southern area of the Thames. Reeves ran through all he had done in the past 24 hours. There had to be a pattern, there always was; motive and method.
As he did so, police officers and military policemen were checking freight being loaded on to railway carriages at all the major railway stations: King’s Cross, Victoria, Paddington and Waterloo. Smaller stations were also being swept, luggage holds scoured. Every boat moored along the Thames was being boarded and searched.
There was a knock on the door. Reeves came back to the map in front of him.
Sergeant Tucker entered, carrying a piece of paper.
“Come in, Tucker. Any joy?”
Tucker presented the paper to him.
“I think so, sir. I think we’ve got him.”
The yard at the rear of the Lucky Sailor backed on to the River Thames. It was a narrow strip that demanded privacy. A disused gallows pole stood at the end of the yard. Not long ago, it had been a hanging pub. Crowds had gathered to watch the condemned swing. Hanging had been a form of entertainment washed down with a few drinks.
Keilty, McDonald and Thomas were sitting at a bench, directly beneath the gallows. Their voices were low and strained. Keilty looked up at the gallows and crossed himself.
Battle emerged from the back of the building carrying four gins.
Battle laid down the drinks with a flourish.
“Four London gins. The finest in the world. Here’s to us, the Four Ravens!”
McDonald stared across the table at Thomas.
“Shut up, Tommy.”
Keilty cast McDonald an eye. Battle, deflated, sat down.
McDonald’s concentration was fixed on the Welshman.
“Anything else to say? I thought not. Despite your doubts, he is our best hope.” Mac made his point, shifting his weight forward, like a big cat waiting to pounce.
McDonald scanned the group. Battle nodded back at him. Keilty inclined his head fractionally. Thomas smoked his pipe and considered his friend through the smoke.
“On your own head be it.”
McDonald’s jaw muscles tightened. He stood up, pulled his coat tighter across his chest and strode away down the passageway, an alley for dark deeds, that ran by the side of the pub.
The other three watched him leave.
Battle looked confused.
“Where’s he going?”
Keilty looked at Battle in bemused admiration.
Thomas tapped his pipe.
“One day, Tommy Battle, you’ll learn the art of listening.”
Chapter Seven
Assassin’s Knife
Laird replaced the telephone receiver. He looked thoughtful. The telephone was still a relatively new contraption. For Laird, it was a channel of power, connecting him with some of the most important men of his generation. A modern means of communication still only really accessible by the rich and influential, the men that made Britain.
He studied his own portrait hanging on the opposite wall as he reached across and pulled a cord. A distant bell rang.
Laird rubbed his brow.
Seconds later, the door opened to reveal the towering Campbell. Laird remained staring into the mirror above the fireplace. He did not acknowledge Campbell’s arrival.
“Send in Argyle.”
Battle and Thomas were the only two left sitting out in the pub yard now. The wind had picked up. The yard had darkened as the sun withdrew into the dusk. Battle looked as if he had drunk all the gins.
Thomas puffed on his pipe. His face creased.
Battle roused himself.
“You for another, Doubtin’? Thought not.”
Battle headed towards the pub, pushing through a doorway not designed for an ex-soldier with Battle’s shoulder width.
Battle smiled at the barman, who obviously remembered him. There were five or six customers in the bar.
As Battle handed over his coins, the door opened and a small ragamuffin pushed his way into the bar with a bag too big for him. It was dragging him down, pulling him to earth.
The boy’s gruff voice echoed down the bar.
“Evenin’ Standard. Copper killed in East End!”
The couple near th
e boy took a paper. Battle decided.
“Here, son, I’ll take one.”
The boy looked up and handed the folded paper to Battle. He tucked it underneath his arm and lifted two gins.
Battle stepped into the dusk carrying the drinks.
“I got you one anyway, Doubtin’. Can’t drink alone.”
Battle dropped the paper on the bench.
“There you go, something to take your mind off things.”
The paper fell open and a sketched face stared up from the front page. ‘Police murderer sought’. Battle’s likeness peered out at them from the paper.
Battle sank to the bench, like a defeated boxer.
“Blinkin’ shoot me,” he breathed.
Thomas studied Battle’s likeness, then the man himself.
“They probably will.”
Thomas reached across and picked up a gin. Silently, he toasted a dumbfounded Battle.
As McDonald crossed Montague Street, he glanced further down the road, then checked to kneel and tie his bootlace. All the while, he remained alert. Rising slowly, he seemed satisfied. Yet the gnawing sensation between his shoulders persisted.
McDonald climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell.
He looked back across the road as the door opened. Campbell viewed McDonald with a hint of hostility.
“I’ve come to see…” but McDonald was not allowed to finish.
“Lord Laird is not at home. He’s dining at his club tonight,” Campbell told him.
McDonald digested this.
“Will you tell him that…”
Campbell interrupted again.
“… Regimental Sergeant Major McDonald called.”
Campbell closed the door into Mac’s growing frown.
McDonald turned away.
He was not beaten yet.
“The Guards’ club, Horseguards.”
McDonald walked down the steps and turned briskly left. As he did so, a figure detached itself from the shadows across the road. McDonald had a shadow.
In the elegant drawing room of the Guards’ club, Laird sat with Viscount Crombie, port glasses in their hands.
The Viscount was shaking his head.
“We almost had them.”
Laird studied his glass. His cane rested against his knee.
Crombie was in his cups. A sorry state brought on by the rich, red port and the failure to catch the four yeoman warders.
“What puzzles me is how they did it? But we’ll find out soon enough,” he grumbled.
Laird leaned forward to top up his companion’s glass.
That perked up the Viscount.
“It’ll all come out at the court martial. Once we’ve found them and recovered the jewels.” He took a sip.
Laird put his glass down.
Laird’s tone was an enquiring one, a voice of wise counsel.
“Court martial? Is that wise?”
Laird let his words sink in.
“Have you ever brought down a stag, M’Lord?”
The civil servant listened transfixed. He gulped at his port.
Laird was thinking aloud for his companion.
“This ringleader, this, what did you say his name was?”
“McDonald of the Gordons. Bounder got the Military Medal at Ypres.”
Laird took a thoughtful, appreciative sip from his glass.
McDonald walked purposefully along a narrow winding path, a short cut through St James’s Park. In the dark, his ears had become his best defence. He heard a slight noise. Perhaps it was nothing, but that feeling between his shoulder blades screamed caution. That feeling had kept him alive before. He glanced around, but kept walking. A few paces on he stopped. This time he had heard something. In the distance, a busier London could dimly be seen and heard.
McDonald turned back and froze. A dark figure was standing six or seven feet in front of him. In the moonlight, the man raised a cruel curved blade. McDonald looked from the exotic curved knife to the man’s eyes. An assassin’s eyes. The man readied himself. McDonald looked desperately right and left and came to a decision. He prepared to charge and take his chances. His assailant flashed the knife. McDonald stepped back, measuring the distance between him and the knife. The man’s eyes searched McDonald’s as his head moved almost in slow motion.
Slowly, like a broken puppet lowered by strings, the man sank to his knees. He twisted, his knife arm folding beneath him, cushioning his fall. He hit the ground surprisingly softly. McDonald looked from the prone figure to another emerging behind the fallen man.
“Evening, Mac. Nice night for stroll. Doubtin’ thought you might be needing of a little company,” Keilty’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the dark park.
McDonald nodded slowly, as though he had been confronted by a revelation.
Keilty prodded the corpse.
“Know him?”
Keilty reached down and extracted his slim, straight blade. Argyle’s face stared up at them and the moon.
“No, but I know his master.”
Keilty weighed the sikh blade in his hand.
Keilty turned to practical considerations. “We’ll put him in the…”
McDonald nodded, a fierce look on his face, but he was already moving.
“No rash moves, Mac. Doubtin’ asked me to make sure you got home safely.”
There was no misunderstanding the command in Keilty’s voice.
McDonald stared at the Irish hitman, struggled to control himself, and consented.
Inspector Reeves sat studying the sketch of Tommy Battle. He reached for his cup, but the contents were cold.
Reeves pulled a face.
“Hinchcliffe!”
There was the hurried sound of movement from outside the office. The door opened, a tired-looking officer, Constable Hinchcliffe, stuck his head around the door.
Reeves looked tired too, but rank permitted him to be angry and short.
“This tea’s cold.”
Hinchcliffe nodded and closed the door.
A Hackney carriage drew up outside Laird’s residence. Laird’s cane was followed by the man, as he stepped out. He paid off the cabbie and stood watching it disappear down the street. Laird scanned the still road. He walked up the stairs.
The door opened as he reached the top step. Laird entered without breaking his stride.
Campbell took Laird’s hat, coat and gloves, but Laird kept his cane. He looked at his manservant.
“No news, Campbell?”
“None, sir.”
Laird gave a slight stiff nod.
Chapter Eight
A New Enemy
The Lucky Sailor was in gloom, shrouded in stillness.
Battle and his nephew, Jack, were sitting with a couple of empty glasses in front of them. The barman, Ted, was clearing away empties. There was a rattle on the side door. Everyone looked up. Two knocks, a pause, two more. Jack nodded to Ted, who walked around the bar and pulled back the bolts. Mac and Keilty slipped inside.
Battle studied their faces.
“Dirty work, eh, comrades?”
McDonald and Keilty hauled off their coats. Jack signalled Ted.
“A bottle and two more glasses, if you please, Ted,” said Jack.
The new arrivals sat, as Ted returned with the bottle and glasses.
Battle laughed.
“You might as well join us, Ted. You’re already in it up to your eyeballs.”
McDonald reached for the drink, waited for Ted to return with his glass and poured. Everyone watched his hand. McDonald’s smile was a twist as he realised they were watching him. His hands were steady as granite.
The five drank. McDonald poured another.
“Well?” asked Battle.
McDonald’s words were harsh and bitter.
“Doubtin’ was right. Argyle. Laird’s man. He’d have stuffed me like a duck, but for Gerard.”
There was no reaction from the Irishman.
Jack looked between the two old
soldiers.
“Where is he now?” Jack asked.
McDonald held Jack’s gaze.
“Swimming in the Serpentine.”
Ted and Jack exchanged anxious confirming glances. Battle chortled.
Suddenly, Battle was serious.
“What I want to know is why? Why a peer of the realm would be involved. Why? Has he gone off his rocker?”
“Perhaps you should tell us, Mac.” The drinkers all spun round, stunned.
Thomas glided out from the shadows at the end of the bar.
They all look startled. Thomas only had eyes for McDonald. The Scotsman stared back.
His mind was back in the Veldt.
McDonald and Robertson watched Major Laird spur his horse away.
Robertson patted MacDonald on the arm.
“Reckon he owes you one, Mac. There’ll be tin in it for you.”
McDonald watched Laird.
“One of Scotland’s finest, Robbo. Major Magnus Laird. My father kent him.”
Robertson was distracted.
“NO!” he shouted his warning.
Boer horsemen were streaming over the far ridge.
McDonald spied them, too.
“Damn, we’re cooked.”
A shot rang out. Robertson crumpled. He pitched forward. Mac raised his rifle and fired back. The leading Boer horseman was punched out of his saddle. McDonald bent down, but his colleague was dead. A gaping bullet hole in his back. Mac put his hand on it and began to turn in the direction that Laird had just ridden off in.
Laird’s voice was urgent.
“Here, McDonald. Hurry man!”
McDonald swung round. Laird was reaching down for him. The officer hauled McDonald onto the back of his saddle and kicked his mount forward.
McDonald broke eye contact with Thomas and looked at his glass. He turned it in his hand. He cast his glance at Battle and Keilty. Acceptance washed over him.
“Laird. He shot Robbo.”
Keilty looked on with compassion. Battle poured Mac another measure.
McDonald was struggling with his memories.