by Mark Ellis
“I am Lady Theobald. Whatever has happened to the other girl who used to be here, what’s her name, Miss Lewis? Where is she?”
Lady Theobald was a plump lady of advancing years. On her head she wore a vast feathery confection of a hat, which loomed threateningly over Sonia, who smiled nervously. She hadn’t met a “Lady” before and wasn’t quite sure how to address her.
“Well, come on, girl, speak up.”
“Miss Lewis has got married, er, madam, and has left Swan and Edgar. I am the new girl at this station. My name is Sieczko, Miss Sieczko.”
“Miss Seek-what? Foreigner, are you? Thought you had a funny accent. Well, what’s your Christian name? Perhaps I’ll be able to pronounce that.” Lady Theobald glowered at Sonia as if she had committed a doubly unpardonable offence by first replacing Miss Lewis and then by being a foreigner.
“Sonia, madam.”
“Well, Sonia. Your superiors will no doubt tell you that I am a long-standing and much cherished customer of this establishment, so look smart as I have an important luncheon in an hour’s time and I don’t want to dilly-dally.”
Sonia moved to another rack of dresses and rummaged through them. Her first day in the ladies’ clothing department was not going very well. She had been notified a week before of her promotion from the ladies’ accessories department and had been given some pointers on her new job by Miss Lewis before she had left on Friday. Miss Lewis had warned her that she would have to handle a few awkward old battleaxes from time to time, but Sonia felt it was particularly bad luck to have one on her very first morning. She rummaged along the rack some more and found yet another dress that she thought might be the right colour. She lifted it out and confirmed that it was the right size. With a sinking heart, she returned to Lady Theobald.
“At last, yes, that’s it. That’s the colour. Now, let me try it on. Hurry up, girl, or I’m going to be late. Ah, there is the changing room, is it not?”
Her ladyship’s ample rear disappeared behind the curtain of one of the booths. After a few minutes of grunts and sighs, Lady Theobald emerged and faced one of the full-length mirrors. “Zip me up, if you please. Ah, yes, that’s it. The right colour and a perfect fit. I’ll have this. It’s lovely. In fact, I think I’ll wear it to my luncheon. Hurry up, girl. Wrap up my other dress and charge my account, won’t you?”
Sonia watched her customer preen herself in the mirror as she packaged up the green dress that she had arrived in. Green, purple or lavender, Sonia didn’t think there was any colour that was Lady Theobald’s colour. And in her opinion the dress hung down from Lady Theobald’s cylindrical body like a sack. But why complain? The customer was happy and that was all that counted, she thought, as she watched her ladyship waddle contentedly to the row of lifts on the other side of the salesroom. She looked up at the clock on the wall on her right. A quarter to one. At one she could take her lunch break and she was looking forward to some fresh air. The store was airless and very warm, and either the stuffiness or Lady Theobald or both had given her a headache. After re-hanging the rejected dresses, she walked over to Miss Hetherington, the kindly, elegant, slim woman who was in charge of the floor and obtained her consent to take lunch. She hurried down the staff stairs and made her way to one of the Piccadilly exits. As she emerged into the street, she heard someone shout in Polish.
“Sonia. Wait, it’s me.”
She turned and saw her brother’s smiling face.
“What luck. I might have missed you. I thought I’d get here earlier and catch you inside, but I lost my way a little. It’s your lunch hour, yes?”
Sonia’s headache disappeared as she surveyed her handsome brother. She’d not seen him in his uniform before. On his two other brief visits he’d been in civvies and last night he’d been dressed for bed. He wore his air force hat jauntily to one side and looked, as he always had since he was a small boy, as if he had been up to mischief.
“Well, what shall it be? I just walked past the Ritz. Shall we eat there?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s a lovely day. You can share my sandwiches with me in the park. Look, I found some Polish sausage in a shop the other day. Come on. Follow me.”
Jan Sieczko put his arms around his sister and gave her a big hug. “Very well, my little sister. Lead on.”
Sonia took Jan’s hand and pulled him through a gap in the traffic to the other side of Piccadilly. They walked past St James’s Church, Hatchards, Fortnum & Mason and the Ritz and arrived at St James’s Park. The park was crowded. All of the deckchairs seemed to be occupied and Sonia led Jan some way into the park until they eventually found a relatively peaceful and shady spot of grass. Jan took off his jacket and laid it down on the ground.
“Oh, no, Jan. You don’t want to dirty your uniform.”
Jan put his hands on his sister’s shoulders and pushed down firmly. Sonia giggled and allowed herself to be seated. Jan dropped down beside her and began hungrily devouring the sandwich that Sonia gave to him while Sonia ate hers a little more delicately and watched her brother eyeing up the more attractive of the passers-by.
“See anything you like?”
Jan chuckled. “And what if I do? I need to make the best of my leave time. After all, this might be my last chance.”
Sonia’s face darkened. “Don’t speak like that.”
Jan stretched out to stroke his sister’s cheek. “I am sorry, Sonia. Don’t worry. I am a survivor and will remain one. Look what I’ve survived already.”
Sonia knew that Jan had been in the thick of things in Poland when the German blitzkrieg had arrived. He’d been shot down twice, but had sustained only minor injuries. At one point a German patrol had captured him, but he had made his escape and then had found his way out of Poland. He had hooked up with his squadron a month or so before the Battle of Britain had begun. She knew that the squadron had been kept in reserve and that he was champing at the bit to get some action. She reached up to clasp the hand on her cheek and stroked it tenderly. She kissed the vivid burn-marks carefully. Jan flinched.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No, no. It hurts all the time. But it will be healed soon. It’s because of the burns that I was given the leave.” Jan stared up at the sky, whose azure clarity was punctuated by a few wispy white clouds.
“It doesn’t look like it now, but things are getting very hot up there – I hope our superiors allow the Kosciuszko to play its part.”
Sonia kissed Jan on the cheek. She didn’t know whether it was good for him to talk about his flying or for him to forget about it, however briefly, and in her uncertainty she asked no questions.
Jan looked at a pretty nurse who was passing, pushing a baby in a chair. She lowered her head demurely in response to his frank look of appreciation. Jan’s gaze passed over her head. “Ah, I see there’s some sort of mobile café there. Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of orange squash would be nice. They’ll let you bring it over here.”
Jan jumped up and ran off and returned rapidly with two glasses of squash. As he sat down, he spilled some of his own glass onto his trousers. “Ah, clumsy old me. Na zdrowie!”
Jan had been renowned for his physical awkwardness as a child and it had been something of a surprise to Sonia and their parents that he had become a pilot, let alone such an apparently excellent one. “Different type of coordination,” he had said without elaboration when Sonia had mentioned it on his last visit.
“And so, the policeman, he seems a pleasant fellow. Good-looking too. Is it love?”
Sonia’s cheeks reddened. “Maybe, I don’t know. He is a very kind man, I think. He has been a little sad also. I like to think that I cheer him up a little.”
“And why is he sad?”
“His wife died before the war and I think it has taken him some time to get over it.”
“How did she die?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk about it and I don’t like to pry.”
“Hmm.” Jan waved his hand at a wasp hovering over his now empty glass. “And will he go to war?”
“No. At least, I think not. He is a little old, but he wanted to join up. His superior said no. Told him he was too important to the police. He did fight in the last war and he is forty-three, and I think he is a very good policeman, so it is perhaps not so surprising. He is upset about it though.”
“You do not think that perhaps he is a little too old for you?”
Sonia wrinkled her nose at Jan. “No, I do not. Fifteen or twenty years’ difference in age is nothing between a man and a woman, provided the man is the older.”
“Oh. Why so? You mean I can’t find myself a little widow in her forties to keep me warm? Why not?”
Sonia pushed Jan’s shoulder playfully. “Oh, shut up, you idiot.”
Two air force officers walked past and Jan nodded to them. “Czechs. I met one of them at Northolt the other day. There are quite a crowd of Czech flyers, not as many as the Poles, but still a good number. And they know how to fly too.”
Sonia nodded. It was almost time to get back to work. She lay back and stretched out her arms and basked in the sun. Her brother did likewise. “Five more minutes, then I must return to the shop.”
“Hmm.”
“Where’s your friend Ziggy today? I thought you were going to get together with him again.”
“I was. He was meant to call on me at your place this morning. I told him nine o’clock. I waited till ten and there was no sign so I gave up on him. He is a funny chap.”
Sonia raised herself on an elbow. “How so?”
“He seems to have a bee in his bonnet about something. He’s got a real temper too and watch out if he takes against you, I’d say. I’m not aware of anyone picking on him, although there are a couple of officers he dislikes intensely. He’s an obsessive sort of man. But he’s a very brave pilot and a good drinking companion and that’s all that matters to me.”
Sonia rose to her feet. “Well. I really must go now. Are you staying here?”
Jan sat up and watched a group of young office girls walk by. “You know, I think I might.”
Sonia punched him lightly on the shoulder and then leaned down to kiss him. “You are going back to the base tonight?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ll get my bag from your place in a couple of hours. Do you want me to leave the spare key somewhere or shall I keep it?”
“Oh, keep it, that’s alright.”
“You don’t think your policeman might need it?”
Sonia punched his shoulder again. Then her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Please take care. You don’t have to be too heroic, you know.” Jan laughed and rose to hug her. She walked away briskly and his eyes lingered on her until she disappeared from sight at the park gate.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, September 4
Merlin woke in his Chelsea flat at just after 4am. It wasn’t the noise of aircraft or guns that woke him, as it had the night before, but the pain in his shoulder. The foreign radio station he had found just before he went to sleep was still broadcasting and he recognised the lilting voice of one of his favourite singers, Charles Trenet. He got up, put on the new black slippers Sonia had bought him and padded to the small kitchen at the other end of the apartment. Returning to his bed ten minutes later with a steaming hot cup of cocoa, he retrieved from under his sheets the book he had been reading before he fell asleep. It was part of the small library of Spanish books left to Merlin by his father, which had travelled around with him for years in a battered old trunk. He didn’t have much time to read, but when he did he often delved into this collection, sometimes reading books for the third or fourth time, pleased to find that his command of the Spanish language remained as fluent as ever. The book now in his hand was a particular favourite. The Conquest of New Spain was the story of Hernan Cortes’ defeat of the Aztec Empire in the 1520s, written by one of his soldiers, Bernal Diaz del Castillo. Merlin was fascinated by this tale of adventure, bravery and cruelty at a time when the Spanish Empire was at its height. He turned to the page he had fallen asleep at five or so hours ago, in which the great Montezuma, Emperor of the Aztecs, was taken prisoner by Cortes and read on, enthralled, until his alarm clock rang to tell him that it was time to get up and make his way to the Yard.
* * *
The Assistant Commissioner had been just about to drop off when the piercing whine of the all-clear siren roused him. Edward Gatehouse was sitting at the bottom end of a long, polished, cherry wood table in an enormous meeting room in the Home Office. From a full-length portrait opposite him, the stalwart bulldog features of the current Prime Minister, represented in a previous incarnation of his as Home Secretary, glared down at him in rebuke. He shouldn’t have had the Burgundy with his lunch. That was a definite mistake. He rustled the papers in front of him and cleared his throat loudly to confirm that he was fully alert. At the other end of the table and at its head, the Home Secretary, Sir John Anderson, was attempting to make himself heard above the noise. Since he himself spoke in a monotonous drone, he was not being particularly successful. Eventually, the siren stopped. The Home Secretary paused and looked at the ceiling as if that had been the source of the noise that had been so presumptuous as to interrupt him. “Did everyone hear that or shall I repeat myself?”
A general muttering noise from the assembly encouraged Sir John to repeat himself.
“I was saying that now we have heard the reports from the representatives of the AFS, the ARP, the LDV and the WVS1, I would like to turn to a particularly unsavoury subject. Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse is here to represent the Commissioner and the Metropolitan Police Force. Assistant Commissioner, the floor is yours.”
A.C. Gatehouse sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Supreme Being for activating the siren just before his turn arrived and stood up. Facing him around the table was a group made up of nineteen men and one woman. Some of the men were uniformed and some were not. The non-uniformed men were all sombrely dressed, none more so than the sepulchral figure at the head of the table. The lady wore a black dress, enlivened by a bright red flower in her buttonhole, the only spot of colour in view.
The A.C. began reading. His report principally consisted of a list of statistics, most of which had been supplied by the local forces of the city’s outer suburbs, concerning the bombing attacks to date on London. Much of this was a duplication of information already provided in the earlier reports made to the meeting, but his audience listened quietly, without comment. In due course, the A.C. arrived at the final passage of his report. “And now let me turn to the reported incidence of looting so far recorded by our officers.”
Sir John Anderson rapped his pencil on the table and raised his eyebrow.
“Yes, listen to this everyone. This is shocking. Most shocking.”
“Bexleyheath reports eight looting incidents of which officers were made aware in respect of which four arrests have been made to date. Bromley reports ten incidents with three arrests. Croydon twelve incidents, four arrests…” He carried on to the bottom of his list and then concluded. “Of course, gentlemen and lady.” He nodded with a toothy smile to the representative of the WVS. “These are reported incidents. No doubt there have been other unreported incidents.”
“Indeed, indeed, Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse, thank you, thank you, please resume your seat.” The Home Secretary removed his pince-nez and surveyed the table. “Would you credit it? In all our planning for the Hun’s inevitable air attack on us, I don’t believe we ever anticipated this problem.”
A young civil servant to Anderson’s left whispered something to him. “Well, yes, Mr Craig here reminds me that the possibility of looting was mentioned in one of our earlier planning documents, but I am not afraid to admit that I, for one, never placed much stress or weight on it. I never believed that it would be anything other than a very minor concern, but look where we are. We have only had a few weeks of bombing and look at the numbers of re
ported incidents in the Assistant Commissioner’s list. I am quite shocked at what our countrymen are capable of. Quite shocked! And if this is what’s happening when places like Bromley are being attacked, think what it will be like when the centre of London is attacked. I daren’t think about what will happen in the City of London, the Docks, the West End.”
The Home Secretary’s shock was echoed by a variety of exclamations from around the table.
“Well, Assistant Commissioner, what are your plans to deal with this outrageous behaviour?”
The A.C. was not expecting the subject matter to be thrown back to him so quickly and had taken the opportunity to tinker with his wing-collar, which was causing him some discomfort. Withdrawing his finger swiftly from inside the collar, he stared back down the table enquiringly at Anderson. “I’m sorry, Home Secretary, I didn’t quite catch you.”
“What plans do you have, Gatehouse, for dealing with the looting? We are looking up in the skies at German bombers every day. We are within days, perhaps minutes, of being attacked here right at the heart of the Empire. With so many incidents in the suburbs, clearly this problem is likely to be rife here in the centre. What plans have you prepared to counter the looters? We would all like to receive the benefit of the Metropolitan Force’s thoughts on this issue.”
* * *
“Thank God for that, Sergeant. And don’t bring me any more for a few days at least.”
Sergeant Bridges hurried out with the last file and Merlin exhaled with relief. He had cleared the decks again, for the moment, and could look forward to a relaxed evening with Sonia. As well as completing all his administrative tasks, he had wrapped up the nasty Chelsea knife attack, which he and Bridges had been looking into since early August, and had got far enough down the line on the string of recent Hatton Garden burglaries to be able to pass the case on to a subordinate. It was half past five and he was thinking that for once he would be able to make an early night of it, when the phone rang and he was summoned upstairs.