by Jim Eldridge
Stark nodded. ‘If the Irish don’t pan out and we haven’t started investigating along the other line, Mr Churchill will be asking some very awkward questions.’
Danvers tapped the papers in front of him. ‘I was thinking of starting at the British Communist Party. Their headquarters is in the East End.’
‘A bit of a long way from Regent’s Park,’ commented Stark doubtfully. Then he shrugged. ‘Mind, it’s said that a Bolshevik will march a thousand miles for the revolution, so he’ll certainly walk the distance between the East End and Regent’s Park. See what you can find. If there is anything, your visit should stir things up.’
Danvers looked at the ramshackle building, one of a terrace of equally ramshackle buildings in the East End of London. This one housed a variety of organizations. The one he was after, the British Communist Party, had its offices on the second floor, according to the neatly painted sign attached to the brick wall by the doorpost.
Danvers entered the building and was hit by the smell of damp and decay. It clung to the walls and hung in the air of the entrance, and continued as he made his way up the rickety wooden staircase. The stairs creaked and gave slightly under his weight, even though he prided himself on being slim. This whole place could come down and collapse in a heap of brick dust and rotting timbers. From behind many of the doors he passed on the ground floor and first floor landings came the click-click-click of typewriters as their keys were hammered energetically. People with important things to say, revolutionary propaganda to be spread at the greatest possible speed.
He reached the second floor. The dust here wasn’t as thick in the air as it had been on the ground floor, and the smell of damp had eased. He guessed the row of buildings had been put up right on the bare earth. The smell of damp was actually that of damp soil.
There was typing coming from behind the door next to the sign ‘British Communist Party’. The door itself needed a coat of paint; the green paint with which it had been painted was flaking off, exposing the wood beneath.
Danvers knocked at the door, turned the handle and stepped inside. A girl of about his age with long, stringy black hair hanging down, almost obscuring her face, sat at a desk, a typewriter in front of her. A young man was standing next to her. They both looked suspiciously at Danvers. The young man, Danvers spotted, had eyes of different colours: one brown, one blue, an oddity which momentarily took him aback.
‘Yes?’ demanded the young woman.
Danvers guessed she’d taken one look at him and reckoned he wasn’t a fellow comrade. He took his warrant card from his pocket and held it out to her. ‘Detective Sergeant Danvers,’ he introduced himself.
Without a word, the young man hurried to the door and darted quickly out of it. The natural reaction of a revolutionary when the police turn up, thought Danvers ironically.
The young woman scowled and glared at Danvers. ‘This is private property!’ she snapped. ‘You can’t do anything here without a warrant. If you haven’t got a warrant, you can get out!’
Danvers regarded her, keeping a façade of calm. He’d expected something like this hostile reaction. ‘I’m not here to search anything or anyone, or arrest anyone,’ he told her. ‘I just want to ask some questions.’
‘I don’t have to answer any questions!’ barked the girl. Then her voice rose and she shouted at him, ‘So you can get out!’
An inner door and an older woman looked out. ‘Trouble, Naomi?’ she enquired. And then she saw Danvers and her mouth opened in surprise.
‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘Bobby Danvers!’
Danvers felt himself colouring. Suddenly, he felt awkward and clumsy. The woman standing looking at him, in bemused surprise, was someone he hadn’t seen for many years. Lady Amelia Fairfax.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘He’s police!’ scowled Naomi, and she looked as if she was going to spit on the floor at Danvers’ feet.
Lady Amelia grinned. She must be at least thirty, thought Danvers, but she looks so … young!
‘Well, well!’ smiled Lady Amelia. ‘I bet the colonel wasn’t amused. A son of his, working for a living.’
‘If you can call being a copper working!’ snorted the young woman. ‘They don’t work; they persecute the poor and the oppressed!’
Danvers ignored the young woman and kept his concentration on Lady Amelia. He gave a shrug. ‘Father and I don’t talk much these days,’ he said.
‘No? Well, I don’t keep up with society gossip,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘So, back to my earlier question: what are you doing here?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Lord Amersham.’
She looked at him, momentarily bewildered, and then she let out a laugh.
‘I thought he was shot outside his house in Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘At least, that’s what it said in the papers. Or have they got it wrong, like so many things?’
‘No, he was shot there,’ admitted Danvers.
‘So why have you come all the way to the East End for your enquiries?’
‘He’s come to fit someone up!’ snapped Naomi. ‘Some poor out-of-work soul who’ll get thrown in jail, and who’ll vanish with no questions asked. Murder solved! The Empire is safe!’
Danvers looked at her thoughtfully. When it was put that way, that was why he was here. Not to frame anyone, but – if Churchill had his way – to find some unfortunate with socialist leanings who carried out the murder.
‘You’re frightening him, Naomi,’ Lady Amelia chided her mockingly. She gave Danvers a smile. ‘Why don’t you come into the office, Bobby …’
‘Detective Sergeant Danvers,’ Danvers corrected her.
She wasn’t fazed. ‘Detective Sergeant,’ she repeated, rolling the words around her mouth with a mocking tone. ‘For one thing, it won’t make our members happy if they come in here and find a member of the constabulary.’ She gestured at the door to the inner room.
‘Whatever he says, don’t trust him!’ scowled Naomi.
‘Of course I won’t,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘I’ve known Bobby since he was small, when he used to steal sweets from his sister.’
‘I never stole sweets!’ Danvers protested. Then he groaned inwardly as he saw the girl, Naomi, grin delightedly. They’re playing with me, he thought. I should be like Stark, grim and silent, untouchable. But instead, they’re having their fun with me.
His ears still burning with embarrassment, he walked over to door to the inner room and followed Lady Amelia in.
Stark sat in the lounge of the small hotel in Cadogan Gardens. It was a very pleasant place: armchairs of brown leather, oak side tables and coffee tables, with heavy brass ashtrays on them, and flowers in vases as an added decoration. The walls hung with prints of hunting scenes. The atmosphere reminded Stark of a gentleman’s club. Hardly the base for a group of what had been described as ‘rabid revolutionaries’.
He heard footsteps coming down the nearby stairs and turned to look. Michael Collins had descended the stairs and was walking into the lounge area. He was accompanied by two men.
Even if he hadn’t seen the photographs of Collins already, Stark would have recognized him from the description alone. The Big Fella, as he was known in Ireland. And he was big. Tall, broad-shouldered, a large face with a slightly punched-in nose, and with a self-confident swagger as he walked that told everyone that he, Michael Collins, was the man in charge. Most of the photos in his file had showed Collins defiantly in uniform as the Commander of the IRA, and in those he had stood head and shoulders above his comrades. In the photos of him in civilian clothes with his fellow Sinn Féin politicians, he had also loomed over most of them, with the exception of the equally tall Éamon de Valera. But in those photos, de Valera had presented a thin, lugubrious figure, while Collins had seemed so much larger than life that the photo could barely contain him. In the flesh, as he was now, he seemed even larger. The Big Fella indeed.
Collins strode towards Stark, holding out his hand. ‘
Detective Chief Inspector Stark, I believe,’ he said, a bland smile on his big features. ‘I got your message saying you wished to talk to me.’
Stark shook his hand.
‘I hope you don’t mind my bringing my colleagues with me, Chief Inspector?’ said Collins, gesturing at the two men with him. ‘We were talking together when I got your message, and I felt it would have been rude to exclude them.’
Stark looked at the other two, recognizing them immediately from the files he had studied the previous night. Robert Erskine Childers and Ned Broy. Childers the intellectual, Broy the hard man. ‘Not at all,’ said Stark politely.
‘Witnesses,’ hissed the smaller man, Broy.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Stark.
‘None of us says anything without a witness,’ growled Broy. ‘Especially to the police.’ And he glared darkly at Stark.
‘Now, now, Ned,’ smiled Collins. ‘I’m sure we have nothing to worry about from Mr Stark. After all, his grandmother was an Irish lass from Cork.’
Clever, thought Stark. He’s letting me know he knows all about me. More to the point, he’s telling me that his most likely source is from inside our own: the Metropolitan Police, or possibly even Special Branch.
‘She was indeed,’ nodded Stark. ‘And, like many from Cork, she came to England to earn herself a living.’
‘As I did myself,’ said Collins.
Collins watched Stark, waiting for him to respond. He’s giving me the cue to say something about working at the Post Office, to let him know that I know about him, too, thought Stark. Instead, he turned to Childers and said, ‘Mr Childers, it is a great pleasure to meet you. I enjoyed your novel Riddle of the Sands very much indeed.’
A small smile of pleasure appeared on Childers’s face. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘With recent events, many have forgotten that I am actually a writer rather than a politician.’
‘We’ll never forget that in Ireland, Bob,’ said Broy fiercely. ‘Ireland is a land of poets and writers. And warriors.’
‘As you can see by his attitude, Mr Stark, Ned here is not a lover of things British,’ said Collins, that same cocky grin on his face.
‘No true Irishman would be after hundreds of years of servitude and cruelty,’ snapped Broy.
‘True,’ said Collins calmly, ‘but let’s keep that for the talks. The chief inspector is here to talk about other things, I’m sure.’
‘I am indeed,’ said Stark. ‘I’m investigating the shooting of Lord Amersham.’
Stark noticed that Childers and Broy exchanged puzzled looks, but Collins remained impassive, that same half-smile on his face. He knows, thought Stark. He knew I was coming before I got here, and he knew already why.
‘What’s that got to do with us?’ demanded Childers.
‘We’re exploring many avenues of enquiry,’ said Stark blandly. ‘One is that Lord Amersham was opposed to the talks you’re currently undertaking with the British government.’
‘So?’ demanded Childers, his tone hostile. Any friendliness he’d previously shown towards Stark had vanished.
‘Jaysus, they’re trying to pin this on us, Mick!’ said Broy angrily, turning to Collins.
Calm as ever, Collins shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Ned. After all, we’re the most public of men. Everywhere we go, we’re watched by the gentlemen of the press.’ His smile broadened and he added, ‘And Special Branch. If any of us had shot the old wretch, they’d know already.’
By God, he’s a cool customer, thought Stark. He wondered just how much Collins knew about the files on him and his colleagues at Special Branch. ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Collins,’ he said. ‘But it has been suggested that there may be some among your supporters here in England who might see Lord Amersham as an obstacle worth removing.’
‘And you expect us to turn them in?’ spat Broy, his face contorted with fury.
‘I expect you to help us with our enquiries,’ replied Stark smoothly and calmly.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting you’ll be using heavy-handed police actions with us,’ said Childers coldly. ‘We are an official political delegation, with all the immunity and protection that goes with it.’
‘Peace, fellas!’ protested Collins, for the first time a note of irritation entering his voice. ‘Can’t you see the man’s only doing his job?’ The big Irishman turned to Stark. ‘You know that Lord Amersham was no friend to Ireland. I’m not going to play the hypocrite and shed crocodile tears for him. He and his kind killed enough good Irish people over the years.’
‘The Black and Tans!’ snarled Broy.
Collins waved a hand at Broy to calm him down, then continued, ‘You’ve been told to question us. Why? Not because anyone thinks we had anything to do with the murder. So … to rattle us?’
‘We won’t be rattled,’ put in Childers. ‘We’ve waited too long for this moment.’
Collins chuckled. ‘Jaysus, Bob, you’ve waited hardly any time at all. You’re English.’
Stark saw Childers bridle. ‘My mother was as Irish as yours, Mick,’ he said.
Stark noticed that Collins leaned forward to utter a retort, but then thought better of it. Instead, he smiled and patted Childers affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Just joking, Bob,’ he grinned.
Although Childers nodded in acceptance of the apology, Stark saw that he wasn’t mollified. There’s tension between them, he thought. Mainly from Childers. He’s an Anglo-Irish Protestant from the upper classes. The rest of the delegation are dyed-in-the-peat Irish Republicans, with centuries of oppression by the British to their names. Childers feels different, an outsider, and wishes he wasn’t.
Suddenly, Collins got to his feet. ‘I’d love to carry on talking with you, Mr Stark,’ he said. ‘As you know, we Irish love a good conversation. But we have things to prepare for very important meetings.’
Stark nodded and rose to his feet, as did Childers and Broy. ‘Of course,’ he said. He held out his hand and Collins took it in a firm grip. ‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your time. And, if you should hear of anything that may help us in this case, I’d be grateful if you’d send a message to me at Scotland Yard.’
‘You’ll get no help from us!’ spat Broy.
Collins smiled. ‘We certainly will, Chief Inspector,’ he said, still wearing that same smile. He released Stark’s hand and turned to the other two. ‘Come, lads, we have work to do.’
With that, the three left the lounge and headed towards the stairs.
I’ve been played for a fool, thought Stark. Someone has sent me along either to stir things up, or to send a message to Collins. The trouble is, I don’t know what the message was. But I get the impression Collins does.
As he left the hotel, he was feeling angry. Someone was using him. It was nothing to do with discovering who murdered Lord Amersham, but everything to do with the treaty negotiations. Who? Special Branch? Or someone behind them? And why?
SIX
Danvers sat in the small, cramped, shabby office, his notebook open on his lap, but he felt overwhelmed. So far there had been nothing to write, nothing that would help the investigation, anyway.
To his surprise, Lady Amelia Fairfax seemed very much at home here. She’d always been a bit of a maverick, Danvers knew that, but he’d never pictured her in this cramped office overflowing with leaflets and books and newspapers, all promoting the communist cause. She’d found herself space among all the papers that were everywhere, even on the chairs, by simply moving a pile of books on to a pile of leaflets that looked as if they were going to cascade to the floor at any moment.
‘The last time I saw you,’ she said, ‘you were about ten.’
‘I was eight,’ Danvers corrected her. ‘Summer, 1908. You were having a row with your mother.’
Lady Amelia looked at him and frowned. ‘Was I?’
‘She didn’t want you to marry to Lord Fairfax.’
Lady Amelia studied him thoughtfully. ‘Either you have a very good memory or y
ou’re making it up from hindsight.’
‘It was a very memorable row,’ said Danvers. ‘It was in the lounge of the Russell Hotel. I was there with my mother.’
Lady Amelia held up a hand to silence him. ‘Yes, I remember it very well, also,’ she said ruefully. ‘One hates to admit that one’s parents may be right, but …’ She shrugged. ‘How about you and your father?’
‘We disagree,’ replied Danvers flatly. ‘As a result, we don’t talk.’
‘Your mother?’
‘She believes he’s right. Or she has to pretend to believe he’s right, and so stand by his views.’
‘So you don’t see her, either?’
‘No,’ confirmed Danvers. Then, in a less abrasive tone, he added, ‘I do see my little sister sometimes.’
‘Lettie,’ nodded Lady Amelia.
‘She keeps me up to date, although she doesn’t tell my father she’s seen me.’ Then Danvers seemed to remember why he was here and abruptly adopted an official tone. ‘Lord Amersham,’ he said.
‘A pig,’ said Lady Amelia calmly. ‘Whoever killed him has done womankind a favour. And many other sections of the population, I should guess.’
Danvers regarded her, still puzzled. He gestured at the shabby office around them. ‘I still don’t understand …’ he began.
She finished the sentence for him. ‘Why an aristocrat like me should be working for the Communist Party?’
He nodded.
‘For a start, I’m just filling in for Sylvia Pankhurst for a couple of days while she’s away raising much-needed funds. I said I’d go through the correspondence for her. If you don’t keep on top of it, it can be overwhelming. But I do believe in the cause. Do you know how much of the wealth of this country is owned by just a few?’
‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
Lady Amelia stopped herself, then she smiled. ‘The statistics,’ she said. ‘The Party’s very good at them. But every statistic is also a person.’ Suddenly, she changed tack. ‘What makes you think the murder of that pig, Amersham, is connected to the Communist Party?’
‘It’s just one line of enquiry,’ said Danvers blandly.