The Revenge of Colonel Blood

by Mark Jackson

  “Robbo was hit in the back. He was facing the Boers, raising his rifle. The bullet took him in the back. Laird shot him.

  “Doubtin’s right. Laird only came back for me. When he came over the ridge, the Boers were too close. They could have winged him. He was WITH them.”

  McDonald gulped down the whisky.

  The others looked to Thomas. He took his time, like an experienced storyteller.

  “Laird’s entire company was wiped out at Van Tonders Nek on August 6. He had been reported missing in action, presumed dead. Eighteen days before the attack at Ladysmith.

  “Later, he was to claim Colonel Peterson, General Roberts’s old spymaster, had given him a special intelligence role, skirting behind the Boers. No such order had been written down. Peterson had given it on August 5.

  “Who would doubt Laird’s word? Ask Peterson? He was dead, killed with the rest of them at Waschbank River. But Laird survived.

  “Survived and was leading a large force of Boers for a surprise attack at Bulwana Mountain.”

  Thomas walked across from the bar. He poured Mac another shot and filled himself one. Veins stood out in his neck.

  Thomas concentrated on Mac’s face.

  “If you and Robertson hadn’t been there, an entire brigade would have been wiped out. They would have had no warning. Between you, you ruined the attack and saved the Gordons from slaughter.”

  McDonald looked miles away. His hand tightened on the glass.

  Keilty’s voice was a whisper.

  “So he changed his plan.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Yes, who would doubt an officer who had ridden back to save the life of a ranker?

  Thomas sat down.

  “Laird came back for Mac. An insurance policy. He couldn’t take a chance and simply leave Robertson. He might have survived and what then?

  “No. Mac was his banker.”

  Battle wiped his mouth.

  “Blimey. A ruddy peer of the realm.”

  Thomas was not finished.

  “A highly decorated, highly respected officer, a leading politician and gentleman. And on the death of his father and, later, his older brother in a shooting accident, a member of the House of Lords.”

  McDonald’s face tightened.

  Thomas had McDonald’s attention.

  “Did he take a special interest in your progress, Mac? Nurture your loyalty.”

  McDonald’s fingers tightened on his glass.

  Thomas was relentless.

  “Turn out every time you got some tin. Put in a good word for you as you earned your promotions,” the Welshman was intense.

  Keilty laid his hand on Mac’s arm, as Battle began to pour Mac another drink. Mac brushed him off violently. The Scot stared at Thomas.

  “You’re saying he bought me.” There was violence in McDonald’s voice.

  Thomas shook his head slowly, sadly.

  Thomas laid his hands on the table in front of the Scot.

  “No, RSM John Cameron McDonald, you have earned every rank and citation that you have. That and more, and I am proud to have known you and served with you.”

  McDonald struggled with himself.

  “Laird worked to keep your loyalty. Worked to keep your memory of the event blurred with gratitude.”

  McDonald’s face twisted.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Not before we get the jewels back.” Thomas met McDonald’s statement with steel. Sharp and dangerous.

  Chapter Nine

  Gold in Hand

  The railway depot was deserted. Engines and stock positioned for the night, forming solid blocks of shadow.

  A small, stubby engine pulled in a couple of freight wagons. The train was moving very slowly, less than walking pace. A man dropped from the engine platform. It was Kruger. His eyes searched out the still railway yard.

  Someone was watching. Only his black polished boots visible in the shadows.

  The train stopped. Kruger walked along the platform. He looked tense as he approached a small hut.

  Skinstad stepped out of the shadow with another young Boer, Janni, thin but muscled. Kruger’s eyes narrowed.

  “All clear?”

  “Clear,” confirmed Skinstad.

  Kruger was not satisfied.

  “What about the watchmen?”

  “Taken care of.”

  Kruger weighed this up.

  “Nothing rash, I hope.”

  Skinstad nodded to his colleague.

  “Janni put enough ‘chloro’ in their tea urn to fell a wildebeest. They’ve been snoring like pigs for an hour.”

  Kruger nodded to Janni.

  “Where’s Halle?”

  Skinstad jerked his head.

  “Lookout. Just in case we have any visitors.”

  Kruger nodded, satisfied this time.

  “Right.”

  Kruger scanned the yard again.

  Inside the railway guardroom, three railway watchmen were slumped in their chairs. Two with heads in hands, another with his head lolling back.

  A sleek powerful steam engine, the Highland Spirit, stood gleaming under the arc lights.

  Laird’s residence was in shadow.

  The lord was sitting deep in his armchair, his fingers twisting the wolf ’s head of his cane. Restless, he pulled out his watch.

  “Argyle should have reported back by now.”

  Laird lay his timepiece on the coffee table and lifted his whisky glass. He took a sip, trying to wash away his mounting anxiety.

  Inspector Reeves’s office looked as if he had lived there for a week with papers strewn on every surface. His clothes and face crumpled and tired, Reeves sat forward, his fingers rubbing his already bloodshot eyes. In front of him was a piece of paper with words scrawled out: ‘Tower’, ‘McDonald’, ‘Battle’, ‘Keilty’, ‘Docks’.

  A sharp rap on the door brought Reeves out of his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  Hinchcliffe, looking equally tired, stuck his head around the door.

  “This just came in, sir. Straight from Downing Street, sir.”

  Hinchcliffe was nervous.

  The Inspector took the envelope and tore it open. He read it, then he read it again.

  “Call me a car, Hinchcliffe.”

  “There’s one waiting, sir.”

  Reeves reached for his overcoat.

  A black car of officialdom turned into Westminster Square, arcing round into Whitehall.

  The Inspector and Commissioner sat nervously as the car swung into Downing Street. Neither looked pleased despite the luxury of the fine leather upholstery.

  Inside the cavernous shunting yard, Sturm looked back down towards the freight wagons. He signalled and his driver edged the engine backwards.

  Skinstad stood on the platform next to a railway carriage. He signalled to Sturm as the freight wagons were pushed backwards.

  The freight wagon coupled with the carriages with a dull clang. Skinstad jumped down and checked the link and turned to give Sturm the thumbs up.

  Two spots of light appeared in the distant gloom. Heavy boots echoed down the platform. Two night watchmen moved slowly towards the depot doors.

  One checked the padlocked door. Kruger watched from a recess. One of the watchmen stopped near the door as if he had heard something.

  Kruger tensed.

  The watchman shrugged, nodded to his colleague and the pair walked off. Kruger slipped his knife back into its sheath, breathing out slowly as he did so.

  Sturm, sweating heavily, turned to clap his driver on the back. The stoker, Pieter, gleaming with effort, smiled at the beefy Sturm.

  Kruger, on the platform with Janni, nodded at Skinstad and Sturm. All was going to plan.

  In a small, surprisingly understated drawing room in Downing Street, the two senior police officers were standing waiting. The door opened admitting Sir Charles, bristling with energy.

  “Gentlemen, you can add this character to you
r list.”

  The civil servant handed over a file to the policemen. Marked on it was a single name ‘EVAN HORATIO THOMAS, DCM’.

  Deep in the shadows of the Lucky Sailor, a council of war was in progress. Another bottle had appeared on the table. These men had soldiered all over the world. Fought and drank and fought again when they had lived to tell the tale. The set of faces was hard. Only Keilty was sitting back in his seat, a languid, casual demeanour.

  Thomas’s annoyance was aimed at Jack.

  “Why didn’t you speak earlier, Jack?”

  Jack looked back abashed. He shrugged.

  “I was too wrapped up. What with everything, Lord Laird an’ all. The revelations.”

  He indicated McDonald slightly, but the Scot did not blink. Jack was faintly nervous.

  “I got news a few hours ago. There’s a warehouse. Rotherhithe way. Been empty for donkeys. Well, until a week ago.”

  “Where?” interrupted Battle.

  “The haberdashers’ old Russian place.”

  Battle nodded.

  Thomas assumed command.

  “Tommy, you and Mac check the warehouse. Ged and I will tackle Laird.”

  McDonald’s muscles in his face tightened, but Thomas was not finished.

  “Jack, we need armour: a revolver each, a couple of shotguns and a couple of Enfields and plenty of ammo. Tommy, start growing a ‘tash. Jack, we need a pair of glasses for him, with plain glass,” Thomas pointed at Battle.

  Jack nodded.

  “Can do.”

  “And get him a heavy cap. His face is more famous than Charlie Chaplin’s at the moment.”

  Battle looked embarrassed, but Thomas was taking no prisoners.

  “Ted, you stay here and handle any messages.”

  “Remember, the only lead the authorities have is us. We are the hunters and the hunted.”

  Keilty seemed curiously pleased.

  “Cry havoc and let loose the Dogs of War.”

  They all nodded, strangely satisfied, as Keilty poured them a final drink.

  The Commissioner and Inspector sat in silence as they were driven back to New Scotland Yard. The Inspector had Thomas’s file in his hands.

  However, Reeves looked uncertain.

  “Do you really think they did it, sir?”

  The Commissioner stirred and turned from looking out of the window.

  “Find them, Reeves. Find them. Find the jewels.”

  The Inspector studied his superior, who had given him no answer.

  Keilty was watching the front door of Laird’s majestic townhouse. He looked back down the street. A cab was parked 30 yards away.

  He looked back across the road. The door opened and Laird stood taking in the morning air.

  He trotted down the steps and looked up and down for a cab. Laird signalled the cab parked down the road, but the driver appeared to be asleep. Laird made no effort to hide his annoyance. He looked the other way. Nothing. A cab turned into view from the other direction. Laird strode out into the street, raising his cane.

  Laird climbed into the cab, barking muffled instructions as it moved off. Keilty watched it go. He turned to step into another cab as it drew up. Thomas, the cab driver, touched his cap to his passenger and the cab moved off, matching the leading cab’s pace.

  Euston station was busy. The newspaper vendors were already at work. Porters hauled leather luggage onto rough-hewed wooden carts. Queues snaked out from the ticket booths. The entire cavernous station concourse smelled of steam, oil and damp coal. Police and the occasional military policeman were standing at corners, positioned to cover the exits. Among them was the bulky shape of Sergeant Tucker, scanning the crowd.

  “It’s the docks we should be concentrating on,” his words carried to a young constable standing next to him, but he knew better than to speak. Tucker’s humour had evaporated since the debacle at the Bull and Bush.

  Battle and McDonald stood looking up at the haberdashers’ old Russian warehouse. Disused, it was still an imposing building. Tall, with two sets of wide wooden doors that operated on rollers. Cut into the doors were smaller ones, just large enough for a man to step through. A building designed to hold huge quantities of goods that could be shunted in and out by train. They walked cautiously towards it. Both scanned the old brick building. Their eyes swept the mammoth doors and long windows for signs of movement.

  McDonald and Battle considered the chained lock of the warehouse. McDonald nodded to Battle as a set of skeleton keys appeared in the Londoner’s hands.

  The sound of the keys being tested in the lock carried in the still dawn air. Three keys later and Battle gave a satisfied grin.

  The huge sliding doors were pulled open. Mac and Battle were silhouetted in the opening of the warehouse.

  McDonald and Battle stood a few feet into the building, becoming accustomed to the darkness. Mac nodded past Battle. Taking his cue, the Londoner moved in the other direction.

  Sitting bolt upright in the taxi, Laird looked tense. He was twisting his cane between his gloved fingers, as the cab flashed past London streets. Laird stared straight ahead, impatient to reach his destination.

  Forty yards further down the street, Thomas manoeuvred his cab behind the one carrying Laird. Although tense, Thomas was enjoying his role as a cabbie. His taxi, a dark green Beardmore Mk I, had been selected to blend in. Thomas watched the cab ahead and smiled, Laird’s cab was the new fangled black. It would never catch on – stood out like a shiner.

  Laird’s cab turned down a street.

  Thomas moved quickly to follow.

  “Where the blazes is he going?” Thomas muttered to himself.

  Small groups of railwaymen trudged into the railway depot, lunch tins slung over their shoulders as they clocked in to start the morning shift.

  An engine driver, Alf, polished his bald head with one hand as he walked up the platform. He reached the engine, the Highland Spirit.

  The stoker, Paul, a bent muscular figure, was shovelling coal into the furnace.

  Alf hauled himself up.

  “How’s tricks, Paulie?”

  Paul grunted.

  “The miserable git wants to see yer. In his office.”

  Alf hung up his knap sack and nodded.

  “That’s all I need.”

  Alf jumped down from the polished engine plate and plodded towards the ticket barrier. Beyond it, he spied Bert, the miserable git in question, a tall, peaky-looking night watchman. Bert was standing near the door to their mess room. Alf sauntered up to him, ready for an argument.

  “Yes, Bert. What was you after?” Alf ’s tone was insolent.

  “Everything kosher, Alf?”

  Alf frowned slightly.

  “Yeah. Why? You look like death, Bert.”

  Bert looked worse.

  “We’ve all got it. Sick as dogs all night”

  “Well, you look like it, mate. Like death,” said Alf.

  Alf turned away and walked up the platform. A satisfied smile grew on his face with every step.

  Battle moved slowly through the warehouse. The shutters on the ground floor windows were all bolted closed. Squares of irregular light from the shutterless upper windows gave the warehouse floor a patched-work effect; blocks of light creating a giant chessboard. Battle was whistling Greensleeves softly. He stopped. He bent down and picked up a rough sack from a pile dumped against a row of crates.

  “Mac!”

  Mac looked across and stepped forward. Something caught on his foot. He went down on one knee and reached out. His fingers met a railway track. Mac edged forward through a wall of shadow.

  Battle was kneeling by a footprint of a heavy army boot.

  “Curiouser and curiouser. Mac!”

  Mac appeared above him.

  Battle looked up.

  “All the prints are the same. Lots of them. The sacks could have been used to carry the jewels over the Tower walls. They could have been loaded into these.”

  Battle
pointed to a stack of crates. Burnt on to their sides were the words ‘Fragile Antiques’.

  “What do you reckon? And I found these in the office over there.”

  The clothing in Battle’s hand was pitch black, the same as worn by Kruger and his team.

  Mac nodded and slowly opened his palm. In the middle of it was a gold doubloon. Battle’s eyes widened. Mac nodded.

  “They were here. Shipped the stuff out by rail.”

  Mac pointed to the railway lines heading towards the huge double door at the far end of the warehouse.

  “Keep looking. There may be something.”

  Battle rose. Mac clenched the gold coin. He flicked it up into the air and caught it. His eyes were alive.

  Chapter Ten

  Imports and Exports

  Laird’s cab pulled up in front of the Natural History Museum.

  “At last,” Thomas muttered, angling his vehicle to pull up a cab’s length behind Laird’s.

  As Laird climbed out of the cab, Thomas tapped the glass passenger partition window. Keilty jumped out, looking to Thomas. Perched in his cab, Thomas motioned ahead, as Laird climbed the wide stone steps.

  Keilty watched Laird.

  “He’s meeting someone.”

  Thomas agreed.

  Keilty took stock.

  “Best we both go in. You stay on him, I’ll follow his rendezvous,” said the Irishman, stepping away from the cab.

  Thomas nodded as he watched Keilty turn to tail Laird.

  Inspector Reeves looked haggard. He was more of a mess than his office. A small bottle of brandy sat next to him. He was staring at the files on his desk. He ran his fingers through his hair, picking up Thomas’s file.

  The policeman was running over what was before him. He’d done this countless times, waiting for the pattern to emerge.

  “Decorated. Distinction. Bravery.”

  He dropped that file and picked up Battle’s.

  “MM and Bar. One of Kitchener’s favourites.”

  He looked at the likeness between the sketch of Battle and his record picture.

  Reeves shook his head, nothing fitted.

  “These men are heroes. Heroes.”