by V M Knox
‘Corporal Hughes is in service here?’
The guard smiled. ‘In a manner of speaking. Just follow the path and knock at the door, sir. You’ll be looked after there.’
‘Ah,’ Clement said, now realising that Corporal Hughes wasn’t so much in service as in the Service.
Following the gate corporal’s directions, Clement walked along the gravel path, a light breeze carrying the fragrance of freshly cut grass. The driveway was long and the grand palace still far ahead. Off to his right was a vast lake and before him a stone bridge led on to the mansion beyond. Despite the picturesque scene that greeted him on the mild spring day, he wasn’t there to see Blenheim’s evident marvels. But he found himself smiling at the thought of the Secret Intelligence Services inhabiting the basements of the Prime Minister’s birthplace.
The gigantic mellow stone building almost shone in the afternoon sunlight as Clement approached it. Fifteen minutes later Clement knocked at an insignificant door to the left of the grand entrance and within seconds a sergeant opened the door.
‘Major Wisdom for Corporal Hughes, Sergeant,’ Clement said.
‘This way, sir.’
Clement followed the burly sergeant down a flight of stairs into a wide underground corridor. To the left and right were rooms with closed doors. At one time, the subterranean space would have been the domain of butlers and under-butlers, but now the whole place seethed with the palpable efficiency of military and security personnel.
Having served in both world wars of a troubled century, Clement had become accustomed to the ways of the military but even though he was now in the more unorthodox branches of the armed services, he had never seen a sergeant escort a major to a corporal. The sergeant preceded Clement up a flight of thickly carpeted stairs to a room on the next floor. There Clement was shown into an elegant drawing room, the sergeant leaving him in the quiet opulence.
Within minutes a shiny, wooden-panelled door opened and the man Clement recognised as C entered the room. ‘We have never formally been introduced, I think, Vicar. I am Sir Stewart Menzies. Mostly known as C. Sometimes as Corporal Hughes. I understand you think we may have a German spy on the loose.’
Clement stood and shook hands with the man for whom he ultimately worked. C listened without interruption as Clement told him about his conversation with Morris and his own speculations.
When Clement finished, Menzies sat back in the gilt armchair. ‘I think you’re correct to be suspicious. There are, Major, aside from a good many airfields hereabouts, certain sensitive installations in this part of the country. Even where we are currently sitting is coveted by our enemy. We understand that Herr Hitler is intending to make Blenheim the Nazi Occupation Headquarters once Germany rules Britannia.’
‘Audacious,’ Clement said, no longer wondering why the sumptuous palace and surrounding villages and towns remained unscathed from Nazi bombers.
Menzies went on. ‘Blenheim aside, if the enemy were to become aware of any of our secret installations hereabouts, it would be a disaster. And nothing short of catastrophic if they were infiltrated. Who else knows about this?’
‘Only Superintendent Morris and myself. The local police are treating it as an unsolved murder.’
‘I seem to recall a policeman named Morris met with Captain Winthorpe last year?’
Clement nodded and waited. Menzies looked deep in thought.
C looked up. ‘I think this should be investigated and I’ll arrange for you to speak with Jakobs on Friday. For now, however, I’d sooner your suspicions about German spies remain between yourself and Superintendent Morris. Whilst we will run it as an SIS matter under your control, it would be preferable for any curious members of the general public and any lower-ranking police officers for it to be seen as a routine police investigation.’ Menzies stood and opened a nearby door. ‘Would you come in, please Miss Ballantyne?’
Clement heard the brisk clip-clop of high heels on the polished floors.
Nora Ballantyne flashed a smile as she entered the room.
Clement nodded in response. He could see she was enjoying his surprised reaction. He had thought he had telephoned Whitehall when he’d spoken with her the previous day, but while the woman was the epitome of secrecy, he believed she was sharing a joke with him. Something, he felt sure, she didn’t often do.
‘I think you know Miss Ballantyne, Major.’
Clement nodded.
‘Anything Major Wisdom wants, Miss Ballantyne. Anything at all.’
Nora Ballantyne beamed then turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Stay in regular contact with Miss Ballantyne,’ Menzies said. ‘She will keep me up-to-date with your findings. I’d be interested to hear what, if anything, you learn from Jakobs. I want a thorough investigation, Major. We need to know the identity of the deceased and, more importantly, who killed him.’
Clement nodded to the guard on duty as he left. Walking along the street he headed for the bus stop hoping he hadn’t missed the last bus back to Oxford for the day. Twenty minutes later one pulled up and Clement climbed aboard. He took his usual seat. He wanted to think. What he’d hoped for was a routine debrief to some obscure corporal. But with the personal involvement of the Head of the Secret Service and his own active participation, Clement knew this had the potential to take over his life for the foreseeable future. Leaning his head against the window, he thought about Mary. In his mind’s eye he saw his deceased wife, her broad smile, her bright eyes and her slender ankles. While his grief would always be with him, time was beginning to blunt the edges of his anguish. It secretly worried and saddened him. He couldn’t envisage a peacetime life without her. He rubbed his hand over his furrowed brow. Despite the endless speculation in some quarters of a negotiated peace deal with Hitler, he couldn’t see an early end to the war. Moreover, if Hitler succeeded in invading Britain, Clement knew as an officer in His Majesty’s Special Duties Section, he would not live long enough to worry about the future.
The squeal of brakes broke into his thoughts. Clement stepped from the bus at the intersection with St Bernard’s Road and walked towards his Victorian terraced house. Closing the front door, he hung up his coat and hat then went straight to his bedroom. Reaching for the suitcase, he placed it on the bed and sprung the locks then grasped the leather sheath of his Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife. Almost without thinking he strapped it to his inner left calf. The vicar in him winced at the thought. He couldn’t philosophise anymore about his current occupation. Besides, self-doubt clouded judgement which inevitably led to procrastination. And that, so he had discovered first-hand, was as deadly as any dagger or pistol.
Standing on the bed, he wriggled his leg, his trouser falling over the concealed weapon. The feel of it against his skin was an instant reminder that the balmy days of Oxford for him were over. Not that he believed he would need the knife for a police investigation but he’d been wrong about such things before and he wasn’t going to take any chances. His gaze settled on the other item in the suitcase. Unwrapping the oily cloth, he stared at the long, large-barrelled Welrod pistol and the magazine beside it. He lifted the holster from the suitcase. Tomorrow and every day thereafter, he would wear it.
Just after six o’clock, he telephoned the Oxford number Morris had given to him. ‘Superintendent Morris, please. Reverend Wisdom speaking.’
Within seconds he heard Morris’s voice. ‘What news, Clement?’
‘Where is our man currently?’
‘Mortuary in Cambridge.’
‘It would be helpful to see him.’
‘I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow morning. And Clement, delighted to have you with me.’
Chapter 3
Cambridgeshire, Thursday 29th May 1941
Morris turned off St Andrew’s Street and drove through the wide vehicular doors of Cambridge Police Station just on nine o’clock. He switched off the engine and together they entered the impressive stone building from the
rear. Morris led Clement down some stairs to the basement where, at the end of a long corridor, there was an unmarked double door. They went inside. No one was there.
A strong smell of formaldehyde hung in the air. Clement wrinkled his nose, the smell an instant reminder of his time as chaplain at St Thomas’ Hospital following the Great War. In the centre of the green and white tiled mortuary was a long metal table. Above it, a large domed light hung and against one wall there was a long metal shelf with two sinks where a swivel-head hose hovered above them like a predatory swan. Clement looked around; the business of death was perfunctorily detached and the silence, palpable.
The sound of a door opening made Clement turn. Two men pushed a trolley carrying the unmistakable shape of a corpse under a white shroud into the room and positioned it under one of the large overhead lights. The attendant then removed the sheet from the deceased and stood back.
‘Thank you. I’ll call you when we’ve finished,’ Morris said.
The men left the room.
Clement stood next to the body. He had expected a more grotesque sight, then he remembered Morris’s words about the corpse being well preserved by the boggy Cambridgeshire ground and a freezing winter. While Clement had seen death many times before, a corpse is always a confronting sight. Enemy or not, this naked man once held a soul that doubtless had hopes and dreams as well as a family somewhere. Clement said a silent prayer for the relatives of this man who would never see him again. ‘How long did you say he’s been dead?’ Clement said, wondering why no one was missing this man.
‘Pathologist says about four months. He was found on the eighth of April in a shallow and hastily dug grave just over two months after Jakobs was taken. Since then he has been in our mortuary. He would have been completely frozen but with the coming of spring, the body began to thaw. And, as you know, the farmer’s dog found him.’
Clement’s gaze returned to the corpse, his attention drawn to the neat hole in the man’s chest.
Morris opened the file and handed it to Clement.
Clement read aloud. ‘The deceased is male, aged in his mid-to-late forties, five feet seven inches in height with light-brown hair, fair complexion and was generally in good health. The musculature is well defined in the upper arms and legs, and is consistent with someone who was physically fit. However, the lower spine and the long bones of the arms and legs were beginning to show signs of epiphyseal wear that indicate a life of heavy manual work. His teeth are slightly worn but otherwise healthy. The stomach contents of fish and potato indicate that the man had eaten approximately ten to twelve hours prior to death.’ Clement looked up at Morris whose only reaction was the characteristic raising of the eyebrows. Clement read on. ‘There is a patch of keloid scarring three and a half inches in length and two inches wide under the upper right arm most likely caused by a contact burn occasioned sometime within the last twelve to eighteen months. There are no other physical abnormalities. There is significant compact stippling to the skin around the bullet’s entry wound to the chest, with charring surrounding the hole, and a bright red hue to the wounded tissue formed from the expelled gases combining with the haemoglobin in the blood. It is estimated that the weapon was discharged within six inches of the victim. Death was instantaneous. The deceased has extensive lividity to the buttocks, shoulders, heels and calves, consistent with lying undisturbed in or on the ground immediately after death. There is indication of a past compound fracture of the right femur.’
Clement looked at Morris. ‘Close range. Could even have been staring at his killer as he pulled the trigger.’
‘So it would appear.’
Clement handed the file to Morris and reached for the deceased’s right arm. Drawing it away from the torso, Clement stared at the patch of heavily scarred, roughened reddish flesh. ‘A painful wound, deliberate or not.’
‘You think it was deliberately done?’
‘Could be. But if it were torture, why is it not more extensive?
‘You think it was inflicted or even self-inflicted?’
Neither man spoke for some minutes.
‘Do you have the bullet?’ Clement asked.
‘Yes and it’s a match for the Luger.’
‘What does the report say about the exit wound?’
Morris opened the file again. ‘Not large but consistent with a soft bullet exit wound. So not subsonic.’
‘Is there any possibility it was suicide?’
‘While the shot was fired at close range, it was not directly on the skin as it most likely would be if it were suicide. Further, the bullet’s path through the tissues would be angled, and X-ray has confirmed this is almost exactly straight. Difficult to do if holding the weapon oneself. And even more difficult to throw the weapon into the adjacent field after shooting oneself much less burying oneself.’
‘Of course. Silly of me.’
Morris smiled.
‘Anything unusual about the clothes?’
‘These are interesting. Not only was the fabric hand-woven but the coat and trousers appear to have been handmade. And I don’t mean by a tailor. His trousers even have turn-ups.’
‘Made before the rationing of cloth. Don’t suppose there are any labels in them?’
Morris shook his head.
Clement stared at the face of the dead man as he spoke. ‘Is there any soil in the clothes?’
Morris walked to the door and called to the mortuary attendant. Five minutes later the man returned with a large bag and handed it to Morris who carefully placed the contents onto the nearby metal trolley.
‘Quite a large amount of mud on the clothes, isn’t there?’ Clement said lifting the trouser leg and staring at the mud caked into the cloth. ‘Is it a match for where he was found?’
‘Yes. He was buried in fenland, Clement, so the amount of mud is not surprising,’ Morris added.
Clement turned his attention to the boots. He lifted each in turn. ‘Worn, old. But sturdy. Workman’s boots.’ Some dried dark brown mud still clung to the soles. ‘Has this mud been analysed?’
‘Same as the grave,’ Morris added.
Clement ran his finger along the sole of the boot exposing the leather. A small clump of mud fell to the floor. Clement studied the footwear.
‘See something?’ Morris asked.
‘A familiar staining.’ Clement picked the encrusted mud off the boot exposing a long whitish line along the edge where the leather upper met the sole. ‘I’ve seen this before on fishermen’s shoes. It’s from repeated exposure to salt water. I grew up on the Sussex coast, if you recall.’ Clement lifted the corner of the coat. It was a heavy weave, and although not a tweed as such, it was thick, possibly homespun. Its only embellishment was a single blue thread that formed repeating stripes approximately six inches apart. Dried mud had mixed with blood and melting snow to form a muddy glue that impregnated the fabric most heavily over the shoulders and back where the corpse had lain in the ground.
Clement looked at the trousers. Both trouser legs were spattered with dark mud and like the overcoat, encrusted with soil clogging the weave. Opening wide the turn-ups, he saw some reddish clumps of dirt wedged in the crease. He pinched a piece, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. It felt gritty. ‘Is this the same soil as that in the field where he was found?’
Morris stepped forward and studied the pasty soil in Clement’s hand. ‘Can’t answer that precisely. I’ll ask the pathologist to run some extra tests.’
Clement placed the earth into a dish then returned to the corpse. Neither he nor Morris spoke for several minutes.
‘Could we go to where he was found?’
‘Of course. It’s about thirty miles from here,’ Morris added.
Clement looked up. ‘I’m sure you’ll have turned over every stone and clod, Arthur, and I mean no disrespect by asking but I would like to see it, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not at all. I thought we’d done a thorough search before but we didn’t find the Luger.
So we can’t assume we’ve found everything the site can tell us. Perhaps another set of eyes will see things differently.’
Clement frowned. ‘Is it possible the pistol has only recently been left in the field?’
‘That would implicate the farmers, both of whom have been ruled out. Besides the bullet being a match, the Luger’s wooden pistol grip is swollen from prolonged water damage. So I think we can eliminate that theory.’
They went upstairs to Morris’s office on the first floor. It was a large room at the front of the police station overlooking St Andrew’s Street. To the right was a long desk, several chairs and beneath the window was a small table. A sergeant brought in a tray with two cups and a pot of tea and set it on the table.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Morris said. He poured the tea and waited until the man had left the room before continuing. ‘Tell me your thoughts, Clement, however random.’
‘Leaving aside for a moment who pulled the trigger, let’s presume for now that our man wasn’t a local or an itinerant farm worker but a German spy who landed at the same time as Jakobs. What troubles me about this theory, other than who actually shot him, is the absence of the parachute. What would he, or anyone else for that matter, do with it? Surely it would be buried with the deceased? So either the ground was too hard or the killer didn’t have sufficient time to dig a deeper grave and so took it with him.’ Clement paused. ‘Do you know how long it was between when the shots were fired to when the Home Guard and police came?’
‘The first responders were the Home Guard. They were on the scene within the hour. Ramsey Police didn’t come until after Captain Thew from the Home Guard telephoned them from Chisholm’s house. They arrived about forty minutes after that.’
‘So plenty of time for the killer to leave the area and take the parachute with him.’ Clement gazed at the large window. A lengthy silence ensued. ‘And why are there signs of salt water on the deceased’s boots?’ Clement said somewhat rhetorically. He rubbed his forehead then looked again at the report. ‘His stomach contents indicate that he had eaten fish. Is it possible he had only just come to Cambridgeshire? Or was he brought here to be killed and disposed of in the field? The timing aside, is there even a connection to Jakobs?’