by V M Knox
Clement frowned. He wasn’t sure why Morris was telling him about what he considered to be a police matter. He waited. With Morris, Clement recalled from working with him previously, there would be a good reason.
Morris went on. ‘From the deceased’s roughened hands, we believe he may have been a labourer or manual worker of some kind.’
‘Who discovered the body?’
‘The farmer’s dog, actually. There’d been a lot of rain and some scavenging animal had been digging there. Charles Ward, the farmer on whose property the deceased was found, doesn’t recognise him.’ Morris took a long sip of his drink before continuing. ‘And, something really unusual; there wasn’t a single possession on him. Nothing in his pockets or coat. Nothing personal of any kind.’
‘Do you suspect theft?’
‘Not really. Thieves don’t usually kill then bury their victims.’
Clement frowned. ‘How did this man die?’
‘He was shot through the heart at point-blank range, facing his attacker.’
Clement felt his eyebrows rise. ‘And no other injuries of any kind?’
‘None. With the exception of a patch of scarred tissue under his upper right arm, there are no identifying marks of any kind. It remains an unsolved case.’
Clement stared at the gurgling waters. ‘Sounds as though he knew his killer.’ He frowned. ‘Not even defensive wounds?’
‘Nothing at all. No blood, flesh or anything else under the fingernails and no bruising or other injuries anywhere else on the body. Nothing, in fact, to suggest even the slightest resistance.’
‘Totally unexpected. It sounds like an assassination, Arthur. You say you believe him to have been a labourer of some kind?’
Morris nodded then sat back in the chair and reached for his glass. ‘You would expect there to be something under the nails. Even if there was no evidence of an attack, there should have been evidence of his trade.’
‘Forgive me for saying, Arthur, but I’m not sure any of this is a security matter.’
Morris leaned forward and continued in a low voice. ‘Quite right and on the surface it doesn’t appear to be. However, something else happened at about the same time and in approximately the same location and what I don’t know yet, Clement, is whether this death and the other incident are connected.’ Morris took another sip of ale. ‘You will recall a well-publicised incident that happened in late January near the village of Ramsey in Cambridgeshire.’ Morris placed his glass back on the table, the brown eyes flashing once more around the assembled gathering on the terrace. ‘Do you remember a German spy was captured in a field in Cambridgeshire in late January? It was in the papers. His name was Josef Jakobs.’
Clement frowned. ‘I do remember. You think there is a connection between the deceased and this spy Jakobs?’
‘I wouldn’t have until two days ago. You may recall Jakobs dropped by parachute during the night of the thirty-first of January and landed in a field not a hundred yards from where our murdered man was found.’
Clement frowned. ‘What happened two days ago?’
‘Another gun was found in the same field not far from where Jakobs landed. It was only discovered because Mr Chisholm, the farmer on whose property Jakobs was found, is ploughing at present and the metal blades of his plough unearthed the weapon.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
Morris nodded. ‘A Luger. And it has been fired once.’
Clement frowned. ‘Remind me about Jakobs?’
‘He broke his ankle on landing and after surviving a long, cold night in the field, with morning’s light, fired three shots into the air to attract the attention of some nearby farmworkers. At the time, one of the farmhands notified the local Home Guard who then contacted Ramsey Police. Both the police and the Home Guard attended the scene. Jakobs was then taken by horse-drawn cart to Ramsey Police Station. There was little doubt he was a spy; he had with him maps of Warboys and Upwood aerodromes, flashing lights, code books, a large amount of cash and a piece of really damning evidence, a radio transmitter - along with the Mauser pistol he’d used to attract the attention of the farmworkers. That was when they called me. But there are a few things about all this that don’t quite add up. Ramsey Police interviewed David Chisholm at length who said that he’d heard four shots. Jakobs’s Mauser pistol was found to have been discharged only three times. Chisholm was told he was mistaken and nothing more was said.’
‘Did you call Special Branch about the Luger?’
‘Yes. The day it was found. I spoke to a young man who told me to submit a report. Put it this way, Clement, I wasn’t confident anything would happen any time soon. Perhaps they think it unimportant. Perhaps they think the Luger belonged to Jakobs and as he is already in custody, it doesn’t warrant their immediate attention. But I’m not so sure. There are just too many things about this case that bother me.’
‘You’re quite certain the gun couldn’t have belonged to Jakobs and that he threw it into the field?’
‘I think it unlikely. Remember Jakobs had a broken ankle and the Luger was approximately thirty yards from where Chisholm says Jakobs landed. Of course, Chisholm could be mistaken, it was five months ago, but regardless, I don’t think it plausible that Jakobs would have both a Mauser and a Luger. And why would he keep the Mauser with him then crawl thirty yards with a broken ankle to dispose of the other and crawl back? Moreover, Clement, if Jakobs was the murderer, how did he manage it with a broken ankle? How did he bury a body single-handedly?’
‘How far is it from where Chisholm says he found the Luger to where the body was found?’
‘The deceased was found in a shallow grave in a copse on the other side of the field and on a neighbouring property. A distance of approximately seventy yards from where the Luger was found and around a hundred yards from where Jakobs landed. We also have the bullet. It was lodged in a tree trunk in the copse. The pathologist has confirmed it was fired from the Luger.’
‘Is it possible though that whoever fired the weapon then threw it into the field, knowing Jakobs was there? What did Jakobs say after his capture? Was he aware of anyone else there?’
‘I have a copy of the police and Home Guard reports in my office in Cambridge taken from Jakobs at the time. You’re welcome to read them. There was little doubt he was a spy, based on what he had on him. A comprehensive list was made. Also, while he wasn’t in uniform, he was wearing a flying suit and under this he had a suit with shirt and tie. As I recall the local lads said he was quite well-dressed. No identifying labels, of course. But as far as I am aware, no one has asked Jakobs about the possibility of there being another person there. While Jakobs’s arrival in England is well documented, it’s the unidentified murdered man who’s of concern to me.’
Clement frowned, his mind processing the information. ‘So, just to have it clear in my mind, Arthur, you think the deceased was shot and buried in the copse and the pistol used to kill him was thrown into the field where Jakobs landed. And that all this took place on the same night.’
Morris nodded but remained silent.
‘Do you suspect Chisholm to be involved in any way?’
‘No. He was at home with his wife. Besides, if Chisholm had seen the deceased, he would have thought him another spy and, I feel certain, confessed to killing him. Ramsey Police ruled him out as a suspect and I agree with them. Unless farmers have kept a souvenir pistol from the last war, they don’t usually use them. Rifles are more their thing. And remember, the shot was fired at point-blank range. That requires a very cool personality.’
‘The bullet that killed the deceased is definitely nine millimetre?’
Morris nodded. ‘Yes, we have it and it has been confirmed that it was fired from the Luger.’
‘I’m sorry to be asking so many questions, Arthur. I’m sure you have done a thorough investigation.’
‘If I had, Clement, we’d know who this man was. I am by no means offended. Please feel free to ask as many quest
ions as you like. It can only help.’
‘Thank you. Is the neighbouring farmer a suspect?’
‘No. Again according to Ramsey Police, on the night in question, that is January thirty-first, Mr Charles Ward was in Ramsey buying seed and stayed overnight. His alibi has been verified by the publican in Ramsey.’
‘It would be good to speak with Jakobs. Do you know where he is now?’
‘The last I heard he went to Canon Row Police Station in London. It may be faster, Clement, for you to find out his current location. Or if, in fact, he is still alive.’
‘I’ll try. It begins to look as though someone else other than Jakobs landed in that field in Ramsey, doesn’t it?’
‘That was the conclusion I came to.’
A burst of laughter from the airmen interrupted Clement’s thoughts. He glanced at the group then looked back at Morris. As much as it began to sound like a security matter, Clement didn’t wish to involve the Service if there was a simpler explanation. ‘Is it possible that the deceased was a local who witnessed something. You know, wrong place, wrong time?’
Morris tilted his head, the eyebrow rising. It was his sceptical gesture that Clement remembered from when they’d worked together before. ‘That would seem plausible but as no one hereabouts knows him, it doesn’t seem likely.’
Clement frowned. ‘The Luger suggests a second German spy but did he jump with Jakobs or after? Or indeed from a different aeroplane?’
‘I did check with Home Security. I am informed that while there were seventeen air raids listed in the Eastern Sector for the thirty-first of January, there were, officially, no night raids recorded. It has to have been a single aeroplane.’ Morris took another sip from his drink then, setting it on the table, leaned forward. ‘Which means, Clement, if there was only one aeroplane, then two people jumped from it. If this second man and Jakobs are connected, and I think there’s a very strong possibility that they are, then the identity of the buried corpse could be of national importance.’
Clement gazed at the river. ‘Was a second parachute found?’
‘Only Jakobs’s chute has been recovered.’
Clement gazed at the tumbling waters cascading over the weir. ‘Is it possible a local found the chute and has used the fabric?’
‘I did think of that too, Clement. We have checked the marriage registers and none of the brides in the immediate area in the last six months have worn white silk.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘David Chisholm, he’s the farmer in whose field Jakobs landed, the local police and local Home Guard know about Jakobs. But only Chisholm, Ward and my lads know about the unidentified corpse and the Luger. The farmers have been told to keep it to themselves for now.’
‘What would you like me to do, Arthur?’ Clement said, thinking it unlikely that a small rural community could keep that secret for more than a few days.
Morris leaned forward. ‘If this deceased man is a German, the security forces should know about it. They may already. Or it may be a complete surprise. Either way, I feel they should be informed and soon. It shouldn’t wait for Special Branch to decide if a Luger found in a sodden field in Cambridgeshire is important enough for them to investigate.’
‘I think you’re right, Arthur. I’ll telephone my people and let you know. Are you stationed in Oxford?’
‘No. Cambridge. But I’ll stay in Oxford until I hear from you. You can reach me on this number.’ Morris scribbled the Oxford telephone number on his card and handed it to Clement. Standing, Morris drained his glass. ‘Thank you, Clement. Good to see you again.’
Clement took the bus back to Oxford. He wondered if he should return to St Edward’s but it was already mid-afternoon and his mind wasn’t on the former headmaster’s speeches. Checking he had his ration card, he headed into town to buy some groceries before getting a bus home.
The clock on the kitchen dresser chimed four as he entered the house in St Bernard’s Road. Carrying his groceries into the kitchen, he saw a note on the kitchen table beside his supper. Reaching for it, he tore it open. Mrs Warrender had left early, it said, to visit her ailing mother. Clement wasn’t displeased. He wanted to think about what Morris had told him without any distracting chitchat. He put away his weekly rations then strolled outside to sit in his garden. Somewhere a bird was chirping. It was so peaceful. He sat in his chair in the garden and closed his eyes, the lazy aromas of spring filling his senses. He focused his thoughts on the unknown body found in Cambridgeshire and explored the possibilities.
If the deceased had also been a German spy and had jumped immediately after Jakobs, who had shot him? It seemed unlikely that Jakobs was the killer for all the reasons Morris had put forward. Nor a wandering local. Clement opened his eyes and stared at the oak tree at the bottom of his garden, the missing parachute on his mind. What would the man have done with it? There were as yet too many unanswerable questions. He decided to call Johnny Winthorpe in the morning.
The light was failing. Above him a bird sat in the branches of the oak tree. A few seconds later, it flew to another branch. He watched it flit around, jumping from branch to branch before flying away. His eye searched for the bird in the evening light, a squint forming into a deep frown. The bird had gone. He stared into the empty sky, his mind lingering again on a second man parachuting into England. Surely a second spy would have had spying paraphernalia with him, similar to Jakobs? Morris had said the man had no possessions at all. Did that mean he hadn’t parachuted into England?
Chapter 2
Oxford, Wednesday 28th May 1941
The bus door opened.
‘Where to, Reverend?’ the driver called to him.
‘Woodstock, please,’ Clement said. He took his ticket and walked towards the rear of the bus, glancing at his fellow passengers before taking his seat. On his right were four women and two men. Six other men sat on the left and there were five young children of varying ages. He didn’t recognise any of the faces.
The bus door closed. Clement idly watched the passing suburban streets from the bus window as they left Oxford heading west. It perplexed him that while total carnage was taking place in the big cities, little appeared to have changed in Oxford. He didn’t know why the Luftwaffe had spared the old town. Perhaps they had an historical conscience after all. He smiled. He doubted it. Whatever the reason, and he was sure there would be one, he didn’t know it. His gaze returned to his fellow passengers as he recalled the previous day’s telephone conversation which had resulted in the unexpected journey.
Captain Winthorpe hadn’t been in his office in Whitehall and Clement had spoken instead to Johnny’s efficient secretary, Nora Ballantyne. When he’d asked about any SIS activity in Cambridgeshire on the night of January thirty-first, she’d chastised him for talking about such matters on the telephone. While he’d always thought her manner to be brusque, yesterday she’d been almost dismissive. He felt a frown crease his forehead. He decided it was the war. With Johnny absent, Clement felt certain Miss Ballantyne would be busier than usual and what she’d instructed him to do seemed almost incongruous. He was to go to Woodstock and report his concerns to a Corporal Hughes. Clement shook his head. Surely he could have spoken to someone in authority over a secure telephone line. He stared at the passing countryside, his lips pursing. It was evident to him that Miss Ballantyne thought his suspicions about enemy spies trivial at best and deserving of nothing more than a parochial response.
He actually prayed she was right but his inner voice and the previous sleepless night was telling him otherwise. He’d thought of little else since his meeting with Morris. If Jakobs hadn’t killed the man found in the copse, then a third person existed. Whoever this person was, their continued, undiscovered identity and whereabouts could have major ramifications for the nation as well as for himself. His gaze fell on a large field of some unknown crop growing on both sides of the road.
Above the sound of the bus’s engine, Clement heard the famili
ar burring hum of fighters; low at first, then with each passing second growing louder until the noise suspended all thought. The increasing roar overhead was having a palpable effect on the passengers. The bus slowed then stopped, the driver pushing his head through the adjacent window. ‘No need to worry, everyone. Little friends!’
An audible sigh spread through the bus as the driver restarted the engine. ‘What brave boys!’ a woman two rows in front said aloud. She recommenced her knitting as the thundering, burring sound of piston engines intensified above until the shadow of the returning squadron passed over them.
Kidlington airfield was off to his right. Clement silently thanked God for their safe return but his gaze was on the woman’s knitting and the quick, rhythmic movement of the needles. The ordinary and the extraordinary; the repetitive click-clack of knitting needles and fighter aircraft of thunderous power that criss-crossed the skies multiple times every day were like something for a futuristic novel; almost unfathomable to comprehend. Everyone admired the pilots’ bravery. Not so for Johnny Winthorpe and the thousands of others who did heroic deeds in secret. Theirs was a hidden world forever shrouded and unknown. Clement returned his gaze to the flat country and its unknown crop and what he considered to be the futility of this day.
He stepped from the bus and walked past the old stone cottages and shops that hugged the village roads and headed towards the large ironwork gate at the end of the thoroughfare. Beside the gate was a small, black wooden hut. A young man wearing a corporal’s uniform stood on Clement’s approach.
‘Morning, sir,’ the guard said. ‘Your name?’
‘Major Clement Wisdom. Are you Corporal Hughes?’
‘Not me, sir. You are expected. Just follow the path ahead then when you get there, take the small door on the left to the basements. Can’t miss it.’