Where Death and Danger Go

by V M Knox

  At midnight Kendall led Clement along the corridor, turned off the lights and unlocked the rear door to the police station.

  Clement shook hands with the sergeant. ‘Could you hold this for a while, Sergeant Kendall?’ Clement pulled his clerical collar from his throat. ‘Don’t know when I’ll need it again.’

  Stepping outside, Clement heard the rear door to the police station close behind him. He breathed in the fresh night air, invigorating after the stale police cell. Within seconds Reg appeared out of the darkness. He carried a rucksack.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Extra ammunition, a couple of grenades and some new surprises.’

  Running across the police station yard, they disappeared into the night. Fifteen minutes later they entered Tenison Street. Clement went straight to the garage, his hand reaching for the door handle. Inserting the lock-picks, he rotated the lock easily. Checking the street again, Reg pulled the right-hand side door open just enough for them to slip inside. Closing it again, Clement flicked on the torch. The Lagonda was there. He placed his hand on the engine; cold. Reg picked the door lock in seconds. Checking the interior, Clement found some road maps in the glove box; one was of London, the next of Buckinghamshire, the third of Hampshire. He unfolded the maps carefully and checked each. There were no marks on any of them drawing attention to anywhere in particular. Replacing them, he closed the glove box. Coming around the car he shone the torch onto the boot latch then along the edges. Two small threads had been stuck to the right side of the boot. Reg pulled some tweezers from his rucksack and lifted the threads, placing them carefully into a white handkerchief then folding it in two. Clement sprang the latch.

  Inside were two suitcases. He stared at them. Both were of elegant leather with reinforced leather edges. Checking for any wires or threads first, he sprang the catches and looked inside each. He had expected to see a wireless and a parachute. What he found were neatly folded gentleman’s clothing, each item expertly wrapped in tissue paper. Clement withdrew his knife and using the tip, carefully lifted the edge of each packet. From what he could tell without tearing the wrapping, the suitcase contained a coat, trousers and dress shirt of a gentleman’s evening apparel complete with gold studs and cufflinks, bow tie, patent pumps and a pair of silk socks with suspenders. He unlatched the other suitcase. It held the same apparel, but the shoes were several sizes larger.

  Reg’s bewildered expression mirrored his own. Why were clothes so important that threads had been used to indicate any tampering?

  ‘Trojan horse?’ Reg mouthed.

  Clement raised his eyebrows as he lifted the suitcases and ran his hand over the boot’s felt lining, his fingers searching every crevice for anything hidden within the compartment. He found nothing. Even the side pockets were empty. Quietly, he closed the boot and replaced the threads with a smear of Vaseline from Reg’s pack. Lifting the torch, he shone the beam onto the walls across the ceiling and along the floor. Nothing. Except for the car, the garage was completely empty.

  ‘Would you know if anything was amiss under the car?’ Clement whispered.

  Reg nodded and, lying on the floor, wriggled his way beneath the vehicle. A minute later he pulled himself out. ‘Nothing. Not under the car and no concealed mechanic’s pit beneath the vehicle. And what’s more, Clement, there isn’t a speck of dust under there anywhere. What do you make of it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He took a final look around the space. It made little sense to him.

  Relocking the garage, they left Tenison Street, returning to King’s Parade just on two o’clock.

  The Parade was deserted. Clement gazed up to the heavens. The night was clear and the waxing moon cast its bright light over the street and fenced grounds. Clement checked his watch. McBryde would be on duty in the porter’s lodge. He slowed.

  ‘Clement?’

  ‘Just thinking. Why kill Hayward?’ He knew his question was rhetorical. ‘There has to be something there; something I’ve missed.’

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Something he wouldn’t leave in his rooms. Something that he didn’t want anyone else to see. Something valuable.’

  ‘You’re the boss, Clement.’

  Hunching, they ran into the darkness of Trinity Lane, their footsteps tapping on the cobblestones, finally stopping at the corner, the main door to Trinity Hall just across from them and not twenty feet away.

  They crouched at the corner, the high stone walls of Gonville and Caius College at their backs. Clement stared at the front door to Trinity Hall. He couldn’t quite grasp what worried him. He turned to Reg. ‘Is it reasonable to assume that Hayward’s death was not a senseless act of cold-blooded murder, but the result of a threat of some kind?’

  ‘To make him give up something? Something he was prepared to die for rather than give it up?’

  Clement stared at his old friend. ‘Was it something he had or something he knew?’ Clement frowned. ‘What do college porters see on a regular basis?’ he whispered, but he was thinking aloud.

  ‘You’re asking me? I never went to university, Clement, so I’ve no idea. But I imagine they see the post. But how would he read other people’s mail if the letters are sealed?’

  ‘So a postcard, then?’ Clement said, following Reg’s line of thought.

  ‘What else do these porters do?’ Reg asked.

  Clement tried to remember Bill’s movements on the two occasions he’d been in the lodge. ‘They take messages. There’s a telephone log.’

  ‘They log all incoming telephone calls? Can they overhear these calls?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. The telephone rang when I was there. He recorded it in a log.’

  ‘Is it possible Hayward was blackmailing someone?’

  ‘Also a possibility.’ Clement stared at his feet as he often did when thinking. ‘What would a man of Hayward’s years of tenure be blackmailing someone at the college about? Something that has been going on for some time. But if that’s the case, why kill him now?’

  Reg shrugged.

  Clement looked up at Trinity Hall’s front door. It would be locked now. He stared at it, closed, silent, secretive. It said, you can’t come in. You’re not one of us. Clement felt it. Not that he was envious. Quite the reverse in fact. Something was going on there. Something that was deadly serious.

  They crossed the twenty feet in silence. Reg took his lock-picks from his pack and rotated the lock, the barrel sliding back. Clement reached down and withdrew his knife. Turning the handle, they slipped inside and closed Trinity Hall’s front door. The door to the porter’s lodge was just off to the right. Clement peered around the window. McBryde was sitting at a desk off to one side, his back to the door.

  ‘Reg, knock on the porter’s door and engage McBryde in conversation. Get him to come out of the office. Say you were in a student’s room and got locked into college and now you want to leave,’ Clement whispered.

  Reg nodded. ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘As long as you can. Cough twice then sneeze when you think he’s about to return.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Clement tiptoed past the lodge and disappeared into Front Court and stood beneath the lodge windows. His gaze flashed to the windows of Rathbourne’s rooms. No one stood there. Not surprising, given the hour. Within a minute Reg was pounding on the porter’s door. Through the side windows, Clement saw McBryde stand, then open the door to the covered walkway adjacent to the main entry. Reg was speaking loudly as though drunk. With McBryde’s back to him, Clement slipped the window lock and pulled himself over the ledge and into the lodge.

  He went straight to the call log sitting on the shelf behind the porter’s desk. Keeping his eye on the door, Clement flipped through the pages for all incoming calls for the evening of Wednesday the fourth of June. His gaze scanned the entries. At half past ten that Wednesday evening, the same night he’d had drinks with Father Rathbourne, one incoming call
had been logged and no recipient noted. Clement’s gaze scanned the other pages. All entries included the date and time of the call along with the name of the caller and the recipient. But not the call on Wednesday evening. The only comment placed beside the time of the call were the initials W.C. Clement turned around, his eye falling on the student records. Opening the drawers in turn, he checked both W and C in the student files but nothing stood out. Neither was there any reference to a call being received. Although Clement knew young Armstrong stayed as a guest at Caius, he checked under A. No Armstrong was listed. Then he checked for a file on Rathbourne. His ears strained for the sneeze, but Reg was keeping McBryde’s attention. Clement scanned Rathbourne’s file and read that Sir Hector Armstrong paid the fees for the priest’s accommodation. But this information wasn’t a secret and was freely available for all the porters. As Clement closed the drawer, his gaze fell on the small fireplace. It wasn’t lit. Clement knelt before it and ran his hand along the under surface of the chimney, feeling for the narrow ledge. His fingers felt a small metal box. Withdrawing it he opened the lid. Inside was a large roll of cash, all five-pound notes.

  Outside, Clement heard the signal. Returning the box to the fireplace, he quickly stood, went to the open window and pulled himself over the sill, falling forward, dropping onto the path. Quietly he closed the window as McBryde re-entered the room.

  Two minutes later, he rejoined Reg outside and together they left the college and hurried down Trinity Lane, crossing the River Cam to The Backs. Below them, a small rowboat was tied up at Trinity Hall steps.

  Chapter 13

  Saturday 7th June 1941

  Waxing moonlight cast shadows around them. Clement gazed up. The moon would be full in two days. Despite the season, a cool breeze enveloped them while above, occasional clouds flickered stark, grey-blue light over the river. Clement spread his coat on the damp ground and lay down, his elbows supporting his grip on the binoculars. Reg squatted beside him. If Reg was correct about the frequent usage of the small boat tied up there, they didn’t have long to wait before someone arrived.

  ‘Did you find anything in the porter’s lodge?’ Reg whispered.

  ‘Money. Quite a bit and all in five-pound notes.’

  Reg allowed a half-exhaled whistle to escape his mouth. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Put it back. Morris can watch to see if the lodge is broken into again. If it was about money, then someone will try again soon.’

  ‘You don’t believe it was theft, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s possible that the money didn’t belong to Hayward. He may not even have known it was there,’ Reg said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you find anything else?’

  Clement told Reg about the telephone call received at half past ten on Wednesday night.

  ‘The initials are hardly likely to be those of Winston Churchill. Why would the Prime Minister call Rathbourne, a man who you know to be antagonistic to our fearless leader. You know, Clement, it’s much more likely to be the initials of the college gardener, or the cleaner. Maybe they’re not supposed to receive calls and that’s why the old boy only used initials.’

  ‘You are probably correct, Reg. More than likely a simple explanation,’ Clement added, but he wasn’t convinced. He didn’t like loose ends any more than he did coincidences and this case had too many of both. In his opinion, when it came to murder, it almost invariably was never simply explained. Besides which, Clement thought it highly unlikely Hayward would choose death to protect the identity of the gardener or cleaner. Surely if one was prepared to put one’s life on the line, it had to be for either a cause or person of national importance or to protect someone held dear. Was it possible the gardener or cleaner was an undercover alias, much like Corporal Hughes for the head of SIS? The fact was that Clement just didn’t know. He thought on Reg’s earlier remark about blackmail. If Hayward was blackmailing someone, that person held a very big secret, given the amount of money stashed away. Clement frowned. Was it the other way around? Was Bill receiving hush money? If that was so, then Hayward had been receiving payments for some time. So why kill him now?

  Clement thought back over his own movements that night. Had the killer also used the window to escape from the lodge?

  ‘I’ve been a fool!’ he said, looking across at Reg who was now lying on the grass, his eyes closed. ‘I’ve made it so easy for them. By returning to college through the front door, I walked straight passed Hayward’s killer and he saw me. All they had to do was plant the Luger and I would be suspect number one. What better way to be rid of me than to see me arrested for murder? Hanged or not, I would be in gaol for months. Certainly sufficient time for them to do whatever they intend.’

  ‘Does that mean they know you are a threat to them?’ Reg asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so. More likely I was an opportune scapegoat.’

  ‘Is it possible they know about your connection with Morris?’ Reg asked.

  Clement stared at the river, black and fast flowing. ‘How could they?’ But he was beginning to have doubts. Was he just an opportune scapegoat for Hayward’s murder? If that was so, what about the break-in at the school? Was that coincidence too? It worried Clement. More than a week had passed since young Michael had been taken from the school. By speaking to the lad, Clement believed he had put the boy in danger. He cast his mind back. Morris had said the uncle had taken him away the day after Michael was sent home. That made it the Saturday, the last day of May. And, a week ago. This uncle was a Fellow living at Caius. So did Hugh Armstrong when in town. Had Michael told his uncle about the day Clement and Morris had come to the school? Had the uncle then told Armstrong? Was Michael in even more danger now?

  Half past four. Clement shivered under his coat. If the previous routine was still to be followed, they didn’t have long to wait. The moon was higher now and he could see some stars glistening above him. He rolled over, rubbing his hips, his gaze falling on Reg’s pack. ‘What’s in the bag, Reg?’

  Reg stood and reached for his pack. ‘The usuals as well as three little gems, and my personal favourites. In fact, Clement, you should have one.’ Reg reached into the bag and withdrew what Clement thought was a notebook. ‘This is a pocket incendiary,’ Reg said, grinning. He ran his finger along the edge of the device. ‘There’s a coloured rod here, at the side. Remove it to uncover a slot. It covers the time pencil key. Red for thirty minutes, white for two hours, green for six, yellow for twelve and blue for twenty-four. To activate, remove the rod then run the edge of a coin along the groove.’ Clement took the weapon and studied it then put it in his jacket pocket.

  Footsteps. Several. They both heard them.

  Clement reached for his binoculars as three dark forms then a smaller fourth descended the steps to the river. No one spoke. Within seconds, one stood in the middle of the dinghy before sitting. Then the distinctive sounds of oars being placed in rowlocks.

  Clement rolled onto his belly to steady the binoculars. In the boat Clement saw a man sitting on the middle seat, his hands already on the oars. Another man then descended the steps and stepped into the boat, sitting aft. This man wore a cap and the collar of his coat was pulled up making it impossible to see his face. Another descended the five steps to the boat. Clement knew immediately that it was the stooped figure of Father Rathbourne. Beside him was the small frame of a child. Clement’s heart sank. The boy’s hands were bound and a gag was tied over his mouth. The oarsman reached up, took the lad and sat him beside the unknown man. Rathbourne stayed on the steps. Clement steadied the binoculars on the boy.

  ‘And be careful!’ Rathbourne’s whisper to the oarsman carried through the still night. ‘Let nothing happen to either of them. Your life on it!’ With that Rathbourne climbed back up the steps and waited in the shadows.

  Clement watched, his anxiety and anger increasing. Young Hasluck was struggling to free his hands but the man sitting beside him lashed out, catch
ing the side of the boy’s head. Michael whimpered under the gag then sat subdued. Clement stared at the child. Michael had been such a confident boy, leader of the lower fourth. Now he sat cowering and complicit. Clement felt sick with guilt for involving the lad in the first place. Surely kidnapping the child would raise alarm? Attention would be drawn; something these conspirators wouldn’t want. Clement refocused the binoculars but their faces were shrouded. By their size and stature, Clement didn’t believe the men now in the boat to be Rathbourne’s henchmen; Gus Hutchinson and Bertie Hawkins. The oarsman was sturdy, the other tall and of slim build. Rathbourne remained on the steps, standing in the shadows. Clement studied the priest, the only one facing the river and whose face Clement could see. What was it about Rathbourne’s expression? There was something almost obsequious about Rathbourne’s demeanour. It wasn’t directed towards the oarsman to whom Rathbourne clearly gave orders but was it directed towards the tall man or the child?