by V M Knox
‘Get in!’ the Scottish voice said.
‘Into what?’ Clement said.
‘Untie his hands,’ Sir Hector said. ‘But keep a hand on his injured shoulder. If he tries anything, break it.’
Someone untied the rope and pulled the hood back slightly. Clement stood completely still. He could see the gravel now beneath his feet and off to one side, a set of large tyres, the sort used on lorries. He then heard several sets of feet approaching from behind.
‘Sit on the lorry tray and swing your legs in,’ the Scot said into his ear and pushed him forward. Clement felt the metal edge of the lowered tray. Turning around and with his palms on the edge of the tray, he pulled himself into a lorry, then swinging his legs up, rolled over, knelt and stood. He heard someone, he guessed the Scot, climb in beside him. He had hoped for an opportunity to run but with so many around him, it would be futile and may mean he was never left alone again. Or worse, shot where he stood. The Scot turned him around and retied his hands, the hood once more pulled down hard on his head.
‘Sit!’ the Scot said.
Inching back, Clement’s heel hit the edge of something metal. Slowly he lowered himself onto a long hard seat. A bottle was pushed into his hands. Lifting it under the edge of his hood, he put the bottle to his lips and swallowed the thirst-quenching water.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Clement asked.
There was no answer but he sensed he was not alone.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Clement repeated, his voice raised.
‘Be quiet!’ the Scot said, his guttural voice constrained. Clement presumed his voice was low so as not to be overheard by others around the college. He knew he was surrounded by people but would any of them hear him if he called out for help? Students at supper. It was unlikely any noise he managed to make would even be heard. He felt someone sit beside him. Then the harsh breath on his ear. ‘Remain seated. Keep quiet. Or your shins will feel my boot!’
Clement waited. The lorry rocked slightly as someone jumped from the lorry to the gravel. He remembered Armstrong had instructed his son to bring another. He felt the lorry move again. Someone got in but no one spoke. Then he heard approaching footsteps, several coming across the gravel. Whoever it was, was resisting hard. The lorry rocked more violently this time and Clement surmised the person was both an adult and he suspected, male. He could hear the muted mutterings of protestation and guessed that whoever it was, was gagged. He prayed it wasn’t Reg.
The tray at the rear of the lorry slammed shut. A minute later he heard the roar of the engine. He sat back, pondering the other occupants in the lorry. Himself, the Scot, perhaps a driver, and either one or two others. He leaned his head against a metal strut behind him as the lorry drove away.
They drove for about half an hour, always on a hard surface. He listened for any familiar sounds; air raid sirens, rail crossings, people, crowds, even the sound of animals or aircraft but nothing came to him. Eventually, the vehicle slowed. He heard the crunching of another gravelled surface. The vehicle stopped and a door opened. Then the lorry drove forward then stopped again. The door slammed shut. A gate, he reasoned. Then something soft hit the side of the lorry; bushes or tree branches perhaps but the vehicle didn’t stop. When it finally did, he heard a door open, then footsteps to the rear of the lorry and the hard click of the tray being lowered.
‘Stand,’ the man said.
Clement stood, his feet spread wide to keep his balance. The Scot was behind him again, the strong grip edging him forward, towards the rear of the lorry. ‘Sit! Swing your legs over the edge and get out!’
Clement sat down on the vehicle floor as instructed and, edging forward, wriggled his way to the edge of the tray and jumped down. He felt the gravel under his feet. His captor was behind him, pushing him forward. They walked no further than twenty yards. He heard a door creak open. Then the rope that tied his hands was removed. In that instant, two strong arms gripped his body from behind, pinning his arms. He felt a hand in the middle of his back. Then, in one swift action, the hand punched him forward. A second later a clattering door closed behind him.
He fell forward and lay still, listening, expecting a blow. Nothing happened. Beneath him he smelt straw. He waited, not moving. Still he heard nothing. Was someone standing over him? Rolling over, he slowly removed the hood, his hands immediately covering his head. He had expected to see someone. The Scot or perhaps the other unknown occupant from the lorry. Even with his eye now hideously painful and swollen, he could just see. No one stood over him.
Chapter 16
Clement sat up. He was in a large barn, two stories in height with high beams. He turned around, his ears straining. There was no sound; neither human nor animal. ‘Is anyone there?’ he asked quietly. No one responded. He stood, the barn’s lofty roof high above him. He was completely alone. Whoever had shared the lorry ride with him had not accompanied him. By the diminishing light in the building, he guessed it was between nine and ten at night. The barn was an ancient building, large and made of stone. Farm machinery of various kinds were on one side. Above him, suspended from the overhead rafters was a block and chain. He had seen such things before but he didn’t really know what they were used for. A large metal hook hung from the block. He stared at it feeling uneasy.
Clement slowly turned around, staring at the walls. There were no windows and soon the whole barn would be in darkness. Only the large double entry doors afforded a chance at escape. He walked towards them and pulled the handle. Locked, and a heavy wooden beam bolted the door from the outside.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew Reg’s innocuous device, feeling it between his fingers. It was the only weapon he had. From the time taken in the lorry to leave Cambridge and to arrive at the barn, he knew he was still in Cambridgeshire. Once he left the county, there may not be another opportunity to escape. He looked at the device and thought back. To activate it, Reg had said to remove the rod, select the colour for the time delay then run a coin along the groove. He rummaged in his pocket until he found a shilling. Red for thirty minutes. It was the shortest time available. Removing the rod, he ran the coin along the groove, then placed the device directly below the right-hand side of the door and covered it with straw. Noting the time on his watch, he took refuge behind the tractor.
He waited. Fifteen minutes passed. Then the sound of someone lifting the beam over the door. He peered around the edge of a tyre. The door opened and a girl of approximately sixteen with a frightened expression entered carrying a tray.
Clement stood but he didn’t walk towards her. The girl approached him, her mouth open, her timid eyes wide.
‘I apologise, I must look quite a fright,’ he said, hoping to draw the girl a little further away from the door.
The girl nodded and put the tray on a straw bale on the ground near to where Clement stood. ‘I was told to bring you this. It’s not much.’
He watched her. While she appeared scared, from her comment, he thought she seemed concerned for him.
‘Thank you. May I know your name?’
‘I’m not supposed to talk to you.’
‘Surely it can’t hurt if you tell me your name?’
‘Isabel.’
‘Do you live here, Isabel?’ Clement persisted.
‘No. In the village.’
‘Which village is that?’
‘I told you not to speak to him!’ Hector Armstrong’s voice bellowed from the doorway.
The girl jumped in fright. Curtsying, she turned and scurried past Armstrong who stood in the barn door less than two feet away from the concealed explosive.
Clement stepped forward hoping that Armstrong would stay where he was. Hector Armstrong was staring at him. There were so many questions Clement wanted to ask. Even if he’d had hours available, he knew Armstrong was unlikely to answer them. He held Armstrong’s glare hoping to keep the man where he stood for a few more minutes. ‘Why am I here?’ Clement demanded.
‘Our plans
are now close to fruition. Not even Menzies himself could stop it now.’
‘Who?’
A slow smile spread over Armstrong’s face revealing his large teeth. ‘You really must think we are stupid, Hope.’
Clement heard the word. His head spun. His eye twitched as a hundred memories flooded back. Hope had been his cover name in Caithness. He could feel himself swaying. He stepped back, trying to steady himself, to control his reactions. Armstrong smiled, a mocking sneer curling his lips.
‘I told you. You are responsible for the deaths of two important people. I will not allow you to kill any more. Besides, now we have you, we’re not likely to let you go anywhere. You’ll be taken to an island far away, where you will die and your body will be taken out to sea where it will never be found.’
‘Shetland?’
Armstrong’s eyes narrowed. Clement saw the reaction and knew his guess had been correct. He flicked a glance at his watch. Armstrong saw the move and frowned.
Clement threw himself sideways behind the wheels of the tractor as an explosion ripped the barn door from its hinges sending it spinning into the air. Armstrong disappeared in a haze of smoke and flame as timber splinters like daggers flew in every direction. A loud groan-like scream pierced the haze. A second later, Clement rushed forward through the smoke and leapt over Armstrong’s prostrate body. He didn’t know if the man was dead or just badly injured and he didn’t wait to find out. He ran across the yard. Light rain was falling. He saw the lorry parked nearby. He ran on. Jumping a low stone fence, he ran into a field and through some long grass.
He knew within seconds that any others in the house would be on the scene. Minutes later, the front of the house was lit up by the fire that was taking hold in the straw-filled barn. He heard the sound of barking dogs. He stopped and turning, listened, his breathing short and exaggerated, his heart pounding. Torch lights now flashed around the barn and highlighted the house beyond. It was two storey and covered with creeper. A large porch covered the main entry. Lights flashed again panning across the fields. Clement threw himself onto the ground, his gaze on the house. In the side glare of a torch light, Clement could see the Scot. He had two large black dogs with him both straining at the leash.
Clement stood, his eyes as wide as possible. Somewhere there had to be a ditch or channel. He needed the safety of water. Holding his aching shoulder he ran on, his breathing audible, his mouth dry, the ground beneath his feet now damp. The dogs were barking. If the Scot let them off the leash, Clement believed he would be torn to pieces.
He ran fast across the open fields and hurled himself into the darkness. His ankle twisted in the furrowed, slippery ground and he fell. Scrambling to his feet, he got up quickly and kept running. Crossing a field of low crops, his foot went from under him again and he fell down a slope, rolling over and over and landing in the shin-deep water. It was ice cold. Picking himself up, he waded along the ditch for twenty yards then climbed the opposite bank and ran along the edge before sliding back into the water again. On his third climb out of the ditch, he saw a light in the distance, far off to his right and away from the barn. It was only for a second. Then again. He frowned and crouched in the furrowed field, a trickle of water running down his face. People were shouting. But not from the direction of the far-off flashing light. He stayed low and peered into the darkness. Not far ahead, he saw the looming silhouette of a two-storey dwelling. He froze, his eyes wide. He had run in a circle. The cross ditch had returned him to the house. He continued to stare. The dogs were still in the fields, some distance away. Off to his right, and several hundred yards away, the flashing light started again. He noted that the people in the yard paid it no attention. They remained huddled around what was left of the barn door, and the body of Hector Armstrong.
Clement waited. For the first time he thought about the lights. Visible lights at night were strictly forbidden yet these people showed scant regard for attracting Nazi bombers.
The front door of the house opened and a woman came out. She ran towards Hugh Armstrong who was kneeling beside his father’s prostrate body. Within minutes three others came out of the house. Clement saw the familiar hunched shape of Father Rathbourne and the two impassive young men who never seemed to be too far away from the priest. They all huddled around Hector Armstrong, lifting his body. Suddenly Hugh stood up, and looked out across the fields, his voice raised, ‘Find him! I want him alive! After I’m finished with him, he’ll beg for death.’
‘They’re out looking for him. He won’t get far,’ Rathbourne said.
Clement waited until the body of Hector Armstrong was taken inside. The door closed. The dogs barked. It was dark now.
Staying low, Clement circled the front yard, the lorry not twenty feet from him. Then the front door opened again. Clement fell to the ground and inched his way under a nearby shrub. Another man came out and standing on the porch, lit a cigarette. Clement didn’t recognise him. He reached for his binoculars. This man had thinning grey hair, a high forehead and an indifferent, almost haughty expression. Was this the man Michael had seen in the Lagonda? Clement searched the face but this man had grey hair and his jawline was not obviously prominent, neither did he have a moustache. The sound of dogs barking carried on the night air. Clement kept his gaze on the man smoking who, it appeared, was in no hurry to join the search. The door opened again, the light from the hallway inside illuminating the porch. The man smoking turned, the light from the house highlighting his face. Another man stepped outside. Clement froze.
Chapter 17
He lay in the shrubs, his head buried in the decomposing leaves. He felt numb. How could he have missed it? Lifting the binoculars again he watched the faces. As astounded as he felt at seeing Walter Bainbridge, Clement needed to hear their conversation. Quietly, he crawled forward through the shrubs and lay flat in the garden beside the front porch, the two men above him.
‘Is he dead?’ the grey-haired man asked Bainbridge.
‘Yes.’
Clement saw the man’s hand stub out his cigarette on the post beside him.
‘What happens now?’ Bainbridge’s voice.
‘We wait. It must go ahead.’
‘How! With Haushofer arrested and Sir Hector dead. That imbecile son of his can’t run it.’
‘I’m well aware of that! Teddy will be here soon. And we can’t leave Hess languishing in Latchmere House, or wherever they’ve got him now, for much longer.’
‘If only Haushofer hadn’t gone back.’
‘There’s no point in dwelling on that. Besides he had to return to assist Hess. We couldn’t have foreseen Hitler’s reaction. Nor that the Gestapo would arrest him. It can’t be helped.’ The man shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter now anyway.’
‘It’s an ill omen,’ Bainbridge added.
‘Nonsense! You just keep Hugh under control until everyone arrives.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Any day. Just as soon as the weather is right.’
Clement waited in the bushes until they returned inside the house and the door closed. He stood slowly and stared at the barn where some nearby farmworkers were attempting to extinguish the flames. People were running everywhere.
Clement’s mind raced. Whoever this grey-haired man was, he moved in influential circles. Clement didn’t know who Haushofer was but he evidently was connected to Rudolf Hess. Perhaps the Abwehr man on the Heinkel had been this Haushofer and he’d somehow since returned to Germany. Clement stared at his feet, his mind on the grey-haired man. Hector Armstrong’s death appeared to be nothing more to him than an inconvenience but the presence of Walter Bainbridge, the Oxford school archivist, told Clement much. He pursed his lips. Learning that Armstrong had known about his Caithness mission confirmed his suspicions about the Scottish connection but he felt betrayed by Bainbridge. Clement stared at the ground beneath his feet. His position at St Edward’s School had been arranged by the Service. Had SIS known about Bainbridge? Clement couldn�
�t think about any of it now. Despite all he’d overheard, his first priority was to get away.
Leaving his position by the front porch and hunching low, he ran along the side of the house. He felt the crushing realisation of what he had always known; he was just as expendable to the Service as Hugh Armstrong was to his cause. Working with SIS made one so. Death and danger went with the job.
He squatted beneath a window at the side of the house. He needed to contact Reg and Morris. Standing, he ran to the rear of the house and crouching there, waited. Hugh Armstrong would be pre-occupied with the death of his father for now, but very soon that emotion would be replaced with rage and revenge. In the darkness Clement heard a door open. The girl, Isabel, walked out. He wondered about the girl’s loyalty to Armstrong. What Clement had witnessed in the barn told him that Isabel was afraid of Hector Armstrong. Did that fear extend to the son? Hugh’s volatile temper convinced Clement that it would. Wise girl, he thought. In the light from the doorway, he watched her. She wore a heavy overcoat and carried a bag over her shoulder. He watched her walk away from the house. The door closed and darkness returned. She hadn’t looked back.
He waited until she had almost disappeared into the gloom, her form just discernible in what was left of the twilight and the rising three-quarter moon. He ran forward, then stopped near a shed. He could hear the dogs, their intense yapping clear on the night air. They seemed further away now. Hurrying through a gate he could see the girl in front of him. Then, away to his right, he saw the flashing light again. He stopped and crouched in the field, his stare on the intermittent light. It was still some distance away across the meadows. The girl halted and turned slightly.