Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘We’ll have to find someone with a wireless receiver!’ burst out Sarah excitedly.

  ‘Billy Wills!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘He’s got one!’ He turned to Stark. ‘What time’s this broadcast?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said Stark. ‘The details about it will be in the newspapers tomorrow.’

  His father got up and took his jacket from the coat stand. ‘I’d better go round to Billy’s and make sure his wireless is working!’ he said. He was about to hurry to the door when he stopped and turned to Stark, his hand held out. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said. ‘Shake my hand.’

  Stark took Henry’s hand in his, a good firm grasp. ‘It doesn’t change the way I feel about … someone,’ Stark told him.

  Henry hesitated, and for a moment Stark thought his father was going to take his hand away. Instead, he gave Stark’s hand a further firm squeeze. ‘We’ll talk about that when you come back,’ he said. ‘Right now, take good care of the King. And of yourself. I’m proud of you, son.’

  They heard the door shut as he went out.

  Stephen looked up at his father, his eyes filled with admiration. ‘You’re going to protect the King!’ he said excitedly.

  ‘I am,’ nodded Stark. He looked at the pieces of the model aeroplane and the pot of glue on the spread-out newspaper. ‘This is looking good,’ he commented. ‘Do you mind if I have a go with you, while Grandad’s out on his errand?’

  Stephen looked doubtful. ‘We’re at a difficult bit,’ he said.

  ‘I promise I won’t mess it up,’ said Stark. ‘I’ll check with you before I do anything.’ He reached out and put his arms gently around his son. ‘Stephen,’ he said, ‘you know I love you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ said Stephen.

  ‘And I’m sorry I’m hardly ever here.’

  ‘It’s work,’ said Stephen. ‘You have to go to work.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Stark. ‘But I know I should have been here more. With you. But you were always in my heart, wherever I was.’

  ‘I know, Dad.’

  There was a pause, then Stark released Stephen and sat down at the table. He gave his son a smile. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So, what can I do?’

  Stephen smiled back and handed him the small knife. ‘You can cut out the wheels. But be careful. The wood breaks easily.’

  Stark found it difficult to sleep that night. The discomfort of the hard bedding arranged for them in the stable block at Buckingham Palace didn’t bother him, nor did the strong smell of horse manure that drifted up from the stables below. Nor did the fact that he was sharing this one room with nine others: sergeants Danvers and Alder, constables Forsythe, Smith, Adams, Rushmore and Whittaker, and their two police drivers. Stark was glad to see that the two drivers assigned to them by the motor pool were both men he was familiar with and had confidence in: Ted Post and Jimmy Webb. All of this was nothing he hadn’t experienced in Flanders – and far worse – during the war. No, he was fearful because he was responsible for the life of the King.

  He’d confidently said to the meeting that none of the old soldiers would threaten the life of the King. But what if he was wrong? He’d based that on Alf Rennick, and the other soldiers he’d served with in the trenches. Many of them had been open about expressing their dislike of the field marshals and brigadiers safe back at HQ, and the politicians who took life-and-death decisions but were never at risk themselves – although, he had to admit, Churchill was the exception. Churchill had served in the trenches, wearing that distinctive French helmet, almost to taunt the Germans to try to kill him. But when it came to the issue of the King, he had never heard one soldier express disapproval of George V or the royal family. Some even considered the King as ‘one of our own’ because he’d served in the Royal Navy, even being put in command of two naval vessels and a torpedo boat before becoming next in line to the throne on the death of his older brother, Prince Albert Victor. Once that happened, his active naval career was at an end. He retained the rank of naval commander, but in an honorary capacity only. It was too dangerous for him to serve in the field. And now here he is as King, being put in extreme danger because of me, thought Stark. Because, as well as Alf Rennick and the like, there are Dan Harkers out there. Ex-soldiers who feel only anger.

  A secret army of ex-soldiers, Alf had said. Resentful and trained to kill.

  How many of them would be following them to Chelmsford tomorrow?

  Next morning, they were up early. Before they went to breakfast, Stark insisted the team checked that the weapons they’d been issued with by the police armourer were in good working order and loaded, but with the safety catches on.

  ‘I don’t want anyone accidentally shooting themselves,’ he warned them. ‘Or, worse, shooting one of us, or the King.’

  After breakfast, they left the servants’ kitchen at the rear of the Palace and walked round the corner to the courtyard, their departure point, and stopped. The royal car was parked there, its paint gleaming black and chrome, the royal standard fluttering above the bonnet in the light breeze, the driver standing to attention beside it. Two police cars were also there, waiting, but in addition there was another vehicle, beside which stood Inspector Rogers and three other officers.

  ‘Special Branch!’ snorted Stark, annoyed. He strode across the courtyard to Rogers, the rest of his team following him. ‘I thought your area of responsibility was the Marconi factory,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ said Rogers. ‘But our prime responsibility is the safety of the royal family. You said we should work together. Well, we are. Our car will lead the convoy. The King’s car will be next in the convoy, then your two cars bringing up the rear.’

  ‘You don’t trust us to do our job properly,’ said Stark accusingly.

  ‘No, to be frank, we don’t,’ said Rogers. ‘Officially, this part of the assignment may be your shout, but I shall be watching you. And the King.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Stark. ‘What’s the situation at Chelmsford?’

  ‘Our men are checking the place,’ said Rogers.

  Suddenly, Rogers saw a movement somewhere behind Stark, and hissed, ‘The King!’

  Stark turned, and saw the figure of King George V walking towards the waiting cars. Next to him walked Edward Shortt, the Home Secretary, with Sir Jocelyn Stevens just behind them.

  ‘Attention!’ Stark ordered.

  Immediately, Danvers, Alder and the rest of the team formed themselves into a neat straight line beside Stark and stood rigidly to attention. It’s like being back in the army again, thought Stark. Rogers had departed hastily to stand to attention by the first car in the convoy, along with his three Special Branch operatives.

  The Home Secretary stopped in front of Stark. ‘Your Majesty, allow me to introduce the leader of your protection detail today, Detective Chief Inspector Stark.’

  King George was dressed in an official naval commander’s uniform, adorned with medals and a broad sash. His hair was parted neatly in the middle, his beard and moustache neatly trimmed. Inwardly, Stark groaned: there was no chance of hiding the King from a potential assassin: the uniform, the medals, the epaulettes, the sash were so garish as to single out the King as a target.

  ‘I understand you served in the war,’ said the King.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Promoted in the field to captain. DSM.’

  So, Churchill again. Or was it Shortt or Sir Jocelyn who’d passed on this information? ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I was very fortunate.’

  ‘On the contrary, we were fortunate to have you. My son, Prince Albert, served, you know. He was at Jutland. A sub-lieutenant on the Collingwood.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that, Your Majesty.’

  ‘No reason you should be. Many men at Jutland. Too many lost.’ He looked at Shortt. ‘I suppose we’d better get on our way. I see Special Branch are here.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. They’ll be in the lead car.’

  ‘Good. Then
let’s get going. And let’s hope this wireless stuff works. It always gave us problems when I was in the navy.’ He walked to his car, escorted by Sir Jocelyn.

  ‘Amazing!’ said Alder, looking after the figure of the King, awed. ‘Me and the King!’

  ‘Time to get on board, lads,’ said Stark.

  The drive to Chelmsford was long, not so much because of the distance – Chelmsford wasn’t that far from London – but because of the slow speed of the procession. And it was a procession rather than a convoy. Because of the announcement about the planned broadcast in the morning’s newspapers, crowds lined the streets of every borough and town they passed through, just to take the opportunity to wave at the royal car as it passed.

  ‘If this bloke Harker has put a bomb in place, how do you think he’ll detonate it, sir?’ asked Alder.

  ‘At Messines they used copper wires,’ said Stark. ‘The difficulty is going to be spotting wires that shouldn’t be there. At a place like Marconi, the whole place is a maze of copper wires.’

  ‘Telegraph wires,’ nodded Whittaker. ‘We saw a lot of them in France.’

  ‘If Harker is going to be inside the building, my guess it will only be a medium-sized charge centred near the microphone,’ said Danvers thoughtfully. ‘He won’t risk bringing the building down on himself. Nothing on the scale of the mines of Messines.’

  ‘Unless the Hand of Justice lot have persuaded someone inside the factory to actually detonate the explosives,’ said Stark. ‘Letting them think that it’s only going to be a small explosion.’

  ‘Kill one of their own?’ asked Alder.

  ‘Trust me, these people are capable of it,’ said Stark.

  It took nearly two hours’ travelling, but finally they came to the outskirts of Chelmsford.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to this!’ announced Constable Adams suddenly.

  ‘Which aspect of it?’ asked Stark.

  ‘The factory!’ said Adams. He leaned forward and said excitedly, ‘I’m a member of a wireless club. This Marconi factory is the home of wireless. Do you know that when they did the Melba broadcast from here, it was heard as far away as Canada! It was heard right across Europe!’

  Oh God, thought Stark, I’m trapped with an enthusiast. Perhaps I should introduce him to Sir Jocelyn Stevens; they can wax lyrical about the future of wireless together, the potential for world domination.

  ‘The two aerial masts they’ve got here are four hundred and fifty feet high!’ continued Adams enthusiastically. ‘Imagine that!’

  The convoy reached the gateway that led into the factory complex. Above the gateway was a huge engraved sign that read Marconi’s Wireless Telegraph Company. Inside, in the courtyard, some of the workforce had been assembled in neat lines to welcome the arrival of the King.

  When he saw this, Stark’s heart sank. ‘Look at them all! Any one of them could be an assassin! What on earth are Special Branch doing letting this happen?’

  ‘I’m sure they know what they’re doing, sir,’ said Alder.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Stark sourly.

  ‘I expect it’s because it’s a big day for the factory,’ said Forsythe. ‘It’s not every day you get the King calling.’

  ‘Who’s written his speech, sir?’ asked Whittaker. ‘Was that you?’

  Stark shook his head. ‘That’s far above my pay grade,’ he said. ‘That’s government level. Our job is to see the King is alive to read it, and that’s what I intend to do.’

  The convoy pulled to a halt, and Stark was the first one out. He hurried to the royal car and tapped gently on the rear door, as if he was knocking at a street door.

  The King’s private secretary, travelling with the King, wound down the car window and looked out at Stark questioningly.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind waiting in the car just a moment, Your Majesty, while we go ahead to check that everything is in order.’

  The King nodded, and the private secretary wound the window up again.

  As Stark headed towards the main entrance, Rogers came hurrying towards him. ‘What are you up to, Stark?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just checking that everything’s safe before His Majesty goes into the building.’

  ‘We’ve already had our people do that! We’ve checked the inside thoroughly, especially the room where the microphone has been set up.’

  Stark stopped as something on the building caught his eye. ‘And the outside?’ he asked.

  ‘What about the outside?’ demanded Rogers.

  ‘Look above the main entrance,’ said Stark. He pointed to a patch just above the lintel of the doorway to the main reception area on the white building. ‘That’s fresh paint.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ asked Rogers.

  ‘By the way the light hits it. And look there, running down by the side of the left-hand column.’

  Rogers looked. ‘Cables,’ he said doubtfully, adding hopefully, ‘They could be for the lighting.’

  ‘They’re new,’ said Stark. ‘Trust me, I know what new cables look like. I saw enough of them in the trenches during the war.’

  He turned to the driver of the royal car and shouted, ‘Get the car away from here!’

  He was too late. Suddenly, there was an explosion from the above the doorway. Stark threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms, as shattered bricks and small pieces of concrete rained down on them. Rogers had taken similar evasive action. A cloud of thick orange dust billowed around them, choking them.

  Stark staggered to his feet, covered in dust and coughing. He looked towards the royal car, which seemed to be undamaged, except for a layer of brickdust.

  Rogers staggered to his feet. ‘The King!’ he shouted in alarm.

  ‘I think he’s safe,’ said Stark.

  As the smoke began to clear, they both looked at the entrance. Or, rather, where the entrance had been. Now there was just a huge pile of rubble. The whole of the first floor of the building had collapsed.

  Suddenly, Stark heard the sound of a gun being fired, and a bullet ricocheted off the roof of the royal car. He spun round and saw a puff of smoke from the hedge that bordered the lawn area at the side of the building as another shot was fired. This time, the bullet hit the side of the royal car.

  ‘There!’ yelled Stark, pulling his revolver from its holster and running towards the hedge. He was aware of Rogers running along beside him, pulling out his own pistol. Stark fired at the hedge, and saw a man and a woman get up from behind it.

  There was another shot, and Stark saw Rogers stumble, then fall.

  Stark fired again, and the man and woman turned and began to run. He chased after them. ‘Stop! Police!’ he called.

  The man stopped, but instead of putting his hands up in surrender, he aimed the gun at Stark. Stark jerked to one side to dodge the bullet and fired back.

  The man staggered a few steps. Stark saw him raising his gun, and fired again. This time the man went down.

  Stark ran on, through the hedge. The man was lying on the ground, the woman kneeling beside him, making a dreadful sound, a heart-breaking howl of anguish. As Stark drew nearer, she turned to look at him, a look of sheer hatred on her face. Naomi Pike. Suddenly, she snatched up the man’s fallen revolver and pointed it at Stark.

  The gun going off beside him echoed in Stark’s head. He turned and saw Rogers pointing his pistol. He looked back towards Naomi Pike and saw that she had fallen to the ground.

  There was a thud beside him, and Stark saw that Rogers had collapsed, his left sleeve soaked in blood.

  He heard running footsteps behind him, and he turned and saw two Special Branch men heading towards them. ‘Rogers has been shot!’ he said. ‘Take care of him! I’ll look after these two!’

  He ran to where Naomi Pike had fallen. She was dead, her eyes and mouth wide open. Stark looked down at the man. His eyes were also open: one brown, one blue. Christopher Richards.

  He was aware that Constable Adams had joined him, gun in hand.
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  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ the constable asked, taking in the two dead bodies.

  ‘That depends,’ said Stark. ‘How is the King?’

  ‘He seems all right, sir,’ said Adams. ‘I saw him walking into the building!’

  ‘What?’ yelled Stark in alarm.

  ‘He insisted, sir,’ said Adams. ‘Sergeant Danvers and Sergeant Alder went with him!’

  ‘The damn fools!’ shouted Stark. He pointed at the two bodies. ‘Stay here and watch over them, Adams. Don’t let anyone touch the bodies!’

  With that, he ran back towards the building.

  ‘Sir!’

  The shout made him stop. He saw that two of the constables, Rushmore and Whittaker, were hurrying towards him. They had firm grips on the arms of Dan Harker, who was struggling to get free of them.

  ‘I’m innocent!’ he was shouting, but when he saw Stark, his struggles stopped.

  ‘We caught him hiding,’ said Rushmore. ‘When we challenged him, he tried to make a run for it.’

  Stark reached a quick decision. ‘Put him in one of our cars and take him back to London. Do it now. And keep a tight watch on him.’

  ‘To Scotland Yard, sir?’

  ‘No, to your own station at Maida Vale. Don’t let anyone else know you’ve got him. Keep him under wraps.’

  As the two constables led Harker away, Stark ran towards the royal car. The rear was, indeed, empty. ‘Where’s His Majesty?’ he snapped at the driver, who was still sitting behind the steering wheel.

  ‘He went inside to make the broadcast. Two of your officers, and some from Special Branch, were with him.’

  ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘They used a side entrance.’

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ cursed Stark.

  Danvers stood next to Sergeant Alder in the large room, along with the Special Branch officers, various dignitaries from the Marconi company and, standing by the microphone, resplendent in the uniform of a naval commander, the King.

  At the microphone was a bespectacled man in a neat dark suit, holding a single sheet of paper. He was standing on a red ‘X’ which had been painted on the floor next to the microphone.