A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Andrew Wareham

  A Deadly Caper

  Innocents At

  War Series

  BOOK TWO

  Digital edition published in 2017 by

  The Electronic Book Company

  A New York Times Best-seller

  Listed Publisher

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  A Deadly Caper

  Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  A Deadly Caper: The death toll rises as the War intensifies. In England, teenage pilot, Tommy Stark marries his childhood sweetheart. Then he’s tasked with assessing the capabilities of the planes being developed for the RFC, before re-joining his squadron. The young and mainly inexperienced pilots take part in a series of operations in which the use of new weaponry and tactics results in more deaths on both sides of the conflict. Tommy’s half-brother is implicated in a shocking food supply scandal.

  Best read in series order

  Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings, punctuation and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  A Deadly Caper

  Chapter One

  “I know it’s winter now, Tommy, and that we haven’t so much as ploughed most of the fields, still less sown them, but it is clear that food will be short next year. Too many farm labourers have joined the Colours; farm horses have been requisitioned by the Army to pull its artillery and supply wagons; steam traction engines have been taken as well to work in the docks, and some of them to tow the biggest of the Army’s guns. The harvest will be far less than we need, and we shall have to buy more overseas and then find shipping to bring it all home. We import foodstuffs in a good year; 1915 will not be good.”

  If that was the case, then so be it; Tommy was only mildly interested. Food was a matter for the farmers and that sort and for the grocers, for Liptons and Harrods and people like that; it was nothing to do with him.

  His father-in-law to be, the Squire, Mr Moncur-Fisher-Hallows, did his best to explain, in simple words.

  “If there is less food, Tommy, then its price will go up. The poorest people will not be able to buy, quite possibly. The workers in the factories will demand higher wages and very probably go on strike.”

  That rang a bell; Tommy knew that they must not have strikes – they needed more of aeroplanes and guns and shells and ships, which the workers must make.

  “So… What do we do, sir?”

  “Two things, Tommy. First make sure that our ships are protected at sea, and that’s for the Navy to deal with; none of our business, never get involved with the Admiralty, Tommy! They are arrogant and unforgiving of outsiders who question them – always smile politely and say ‘aye aye, sir’ to the sailormen. Secondly, buy wheat and beef, and perhaps mutton, overseas, mostly in the United States and in South America, but also in the empire, and that we can do. You and I, Tommy.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Tommy. Not in person, of course. Your trust fund, Tommy. We have put aside the original eighteen thousand, and that remains safely invested, but you have a little less than forty thousand of profits we made for you when the prices fell in August. I have the use of that and will put it together with my funds to make our purchases, with your permission.”

  Squire did not tell Tommy that he did not legally require his permission, his trustees made all of the decisions until he reached the age specified in his father’s will – better to offer the young chap the courtesy of believing that he was independent.

  “Of course, sir, of course! You must do as you think best. One thing, though, sir. How did I make a profit when prices fell? I thought a profit came when prices went up.”

  “They do, provided you are in a position to sell, rather than buy, after they have risen, that is. In this instance we sold before they fell, and then bought where prices were low. It was obvious that bond prices must fall, drastically, on declaration of war, while other stocks must rise, and so I sold to protect your Trust Fund.”

  Squire thought there was no need to explain in greater detail. The boy was not a natural financier, it seemed; remarkably able in some ways, Tommy still seemed to think that money grew on trees.

  “I sold our futures in metals last month, because the government had stepped into that market; well, the Bank of England did in actual fact, but that is the same thing. We can do better with the American harvest, I am sure of that, and we made more than a little from copper before we got out.”

  “It sounds as if you are going to make me wealthy, sir.”

  Tommy was not entirely certain that one should become rich on the back of war, especially a war that seemed to be bloodier every day.

  “I am more concerned to ensure that Grace – your Monkey, as you insist on calling her - and my grandchildren when they eventuate, will be very well off, Tommy.”

  That was a different matter, not the same as profiteering at all. It was every man’s duty to look after his family. Tommy was perfectly satisfied.

  “May I borrow the chauffeur for tomorrow, sir? I must take this leg to the hospital for another assessment. Four weeks since the wound and it is healing very well, I think. If I can get a date for my discharge as fit, then I can start bending the proper ears to arrange a date for a posting. Back to Three Squadron, I hope, sir.”

  “Is that not certain, Tommy?”

  “Not at all, sir. I might be sent to instructing at a training field, or be put into HQ to assist the great men make policy for the RFC, or be ordered to the Royal Aircraft Factory to work with the designers there. The fact that I have no idea at all about anything except actually flying the machines will not be regarded as important!”

  Squire was almost reduced to despair.

  “Have they no understanding of reality? Are we expected to win this war, Tommy?”

  “What has that to do with it, sir? It is far more important that a brigadier shall be made major-general, or that one politician shall score points off another!”

  “You have been reading the newspapers again, Tommy, and listening to the radicals. Never to be recommended to the young, who tend to believe them. Changing the subject, is all ready for the wedding?”

  Tommy shrugged, waved his arms wide.

  “Do not ask me about that, sir! My sole function is to stand straight and tall in my best uniform and say the words that are fed to me. The rest is all in the hands of Mo
nkey and Mrs Moncur-Fisher-Hallows – weddings are not for menfolk, it would seem!”

  The doctor at the hospital poked Tommy’s leg and said it seemed within reason a healthy member, the wound had knitted in the most satisfactory fashion.

  “Exercise it more, Captain Stark. It is now safe to take walks of a mile or two at a time. If it aches a bit, well and good; if it hurts, cut back on the exercise. Do not overstrain it. You may fly in four weeks, I believe. I would say two months, but I know you would not obey that order and would be in the air tomorrow, so I repeat, four weeks and be good!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The hospital taken over by the RFC as its own was well into the centre of London; Tommy, having been driven by Squire’s chauffeur, had no idea of its exact location. He leaned against the door, asked the driver if he knew where Rundell and Bridge was.

  “The jewellers, sir? Yes, sir. Ten minutes, sir.”

  “Good, let us go there; I must buy a wedding gift, and something for the best man, a tankard, Squire said.”

  Lavinia’s unctuous husband, Mr Monkton, had been very pleased to volunteer his services as groomsman, making only the most oblique comment on the unavailability of Tommy’s own brother.

  There had been anxious conferences relating to the ambiguous Mr Joseph Stark; he was Tommy’s elder brother, at least as far as the general public was concerned, and convention demanded his presence at the wedding. Tact and convenience said that he must be kept safely distant. They had sent him a card and received a polite refusal through inability – he was to be away on business on that particular date.

  “Which is, when all is said and done, Tommy, a great relief. Very sensible of the young gentleman. Has he any business, do you know?”

  Squire was applied to by his lady and said that he had heard Mr Joseph Stark was in the way of expanding a small factory he had set up in September for the processing and canning or bottling of army rations. Jam and stew, came to mind.

  “There is much in the way of apples and soft fruit in this part of the county, so jam is not untoward, I believe. As for stew, in cans, of that I know nothing at all.”

  The family was not in the way of eating from cans.

  “No doubt it is for the stew that he has purchased a tonnage of swedes this harvest.”

  Squire said nothing of the rumours he had heard of boiled swede, which tended to be bland and to take up other flavours very easily, being a major constituent of the jams leaving Mr Stark’s factory. It was another way of making money from this war, an aim he must approve of, even if he did not like these particular methods. It was not as if swede could be harmful to the men who ate it – it was a root vegetable that sometimes appeared on his own table, though he did not like it very much. A good quantity of sugar would cover many sins, and the lower classes were renowned for being sweet-toothed… There was no need to make any public fuss about the jam factory, to give the muck-rakers of the newspapers fuel for their next so-called campaign. In any case, Mr Stark was, he believed, in some contact with Mr Monkton; there was the question of just where the money had come from to set up the factory and it was not impossible that Mr Monkton had spoken to a bank manager on Mr Stark’s behalf. Too close to the family to say anything publicly, Squire felt.

  A fortnight and it was wedding day, to the delight of bride and groom and the unalloyed pleasure of Tommy’s mama-in-law to be; Squire seemed less ecstatic, but smiled his best.

  “A pity that the Mention does not come with a ribbon, Tommy – it would go well on the uniform otherwise.”

  “Mentions in Despatches are not so uncommon, sir. We must wait another ten years until I am made major and then I can be given a DSO to wear.”

  “There is this new Military Cross that has now been introduced for subalterns, Tommy. I understand that it has been backdated to the beginning of hostilities.”

  “There are many soldiers who greatly deserve such recognition, I believe, sir. From the little we hear, the fighting on the ground is fierce indeed. Have you heard anything of Monkey’s brother, George, sir?”

  “Nothing. His battalion has been in the line at Ypres, in this Salient place, for two months now, but not a word from him.”

  “The Army would have been in contact if the worst happened, sir. Hearing nothing means that he is alive, or so one must think.”

  Squire agreed; it was a certainty that George’s identity tags had not been taken from his dead body. He rather expected, however, that particular service to be performed for Tommy before the war was over; enthusiastic young men tended to be short-lived he feared, but he would not deny his favourite daughter her heart’s wish, and he would be there to support her in her almost inevitable widowhood.

  “There is my car, sir. I must go to the church.”

  Squire would follow with his daughter, to lead her on his arm up the aisle. He would do so with far greater pleasure than had been the case for his elder girl, Mrs Monkton, less than six months before.

  Mr Monkton, splendid in morning dress, the epitome of the rich civilian, joined Tommy in the church.

  “Jolly good to see you walking so easily, Thomas! You will not have heard the news – old Hapgood, the MP, has dropped dead! I am to have his seat, you know. The parties have agreed not to contest any by-elections during the war, so I have a walk-in. Five weeks from now, Thomas, six at most, and I shall be bowing to Mr Speaker as I take my place in the Chamber of the House of Commons!”

  Tommy made it clear that he was really, terribly pleased to hear that; he knew that Mr Monkton would grace the House and would soon be invited into the government.

  Members of Parliament were far too important to go off to war, unless they were determined to wear khaki, and Mr Monkton could expect to sit in safety many miles from danger, unless a happy Zeppelin should chance to drop a bomb upon his head – but the likelihood of that was very small. He noticed that Mr Monkton was already sporting a prosperous belly; five years, ten at most, and he would, Tommy reflected, be as fat as a pig! As a Member of Parliament, that was in more ways than one appropriate.

  They took their place and waited, as was their function. Tommy glanced out of the corner of his eyes and observed that although this was a wartime wedding, in which great pomp and expense was inappropriate, nevertheless a good half of the County was present, on the bride’s side mostly. Stretching his neck a little more he spotted a few behind him; Mr Sopwith was there, much to Tommy’s pleasure, and a few others of pilots he knew from his Brooklands days, several of them in uniform, Major Becke as well. To his amaze he saw Brigadier, as he now was, Sykes come in and take a pew, resplendent in his uniform; very pleasing, Monkey would like that very much and Squire could not be unimpressed, for Brigadier Sykes of the RFC was a national figure.

  The organ gave its thunder and Monkey, all in white, came smiling down the aisle on her father’s arm; she was beautiful, Tommy thought, her intelligent face shining her delight in the day. He stood up to her side, aware that he was a lucky man – almost recovered from his wound, about to marry the girl he loved, soon to fly again, and with a war to fight – the greatest in history, perhaps, and him to be a part of the glory.

  The vicar was a muscular Christian, it seemed, not that Tommy knew the distinction, and celebrated the warrior’s wedding with glee and fervour, calling the faithful to prayer and battle quite even-handedly. Tommy rather gathered that he was to father a race of soldiers, which seemed a little excessive, and was to fight for the King, the Empire and his wife and family, presumably in that order. It all seemed a fraction enthusiastic, but if that was how the Nation wanted it, which the vicar was obviously quite certain of, then as a loyal soldier of his King he must knuckle under and do the job. He had never thought about such matters, himself, but the vicar clearly had, and was an expert in patriotism and licensed bloodshed – strange for a man of peace, but possibly he could see warfare the more clearly for being at a distance from it.

  Tommy kissed his bride and walked her back
down the aisle on his arm, all as was demanded, and endured the enthusiasm of the crowd of tenants and villagers outside the church doors and posed, very stiffly, for the camera. Then a short car ride to the Big House for the reception, never a moment of privacy in which to speak to Monkey, to tell her of his delight in the day.

  They were greeted and congratulated by the assembly of the local great and then were brought to the table for the wedding breakfast, which at least allowed him to take the weight off his leg, which was becoming just a little sore – he would admit to no more.

  Speeches followed, inevitably, all of the normal rigmarole, to be ignored until Brigadier Sykes was invited to stand, obviously at his own request. He made his bland congratulations and complimented the bride and told Tommy he was a lucky dog to have won a beautiful lady; then he became suddenly far more serious, turning his attention to the assembled guests.

  “You will all know that Captain Stark returned to England wounded in battle, having performed gallantly in two of the first aerial bombardments conducted by the RFC. He had previously been victorious in an aerial battle with a German Scout plane spying out the details of the Army’s movements. He has already been Mentioned in Despatches no fewer than three times!”

  Brigadier Sykes paused for murmurs of applause and handclaps.

  “You will have heard,” the Brigadier continued, “that His Majesty the King has been pleased to inaugurate a new Honour for those of his junior officers distinguished in battle, the Military Cross, backdated to the very beginning of this war. I am pleased and proud to tell you that Captain Stark has been awarded this Honour, a recognition of his valour in this terrible conflict. On being informed of Captain Stark’s wedding, His Majesty has most graciously permitted me to present the insignia to him. All England, and the Royal Flying Corps most especially, must be proud of you, Captain Stark!”