Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘Well, to date, Hamilton hasn’t actually been present at any of the meetings himself, Harley; he’s been going on information that he’s gleaned from other members of the Elite Bodyguard. However, there have been references to certain ritualistic elements to these gatherings. One of the bodyguard staff likened it to a Masonic lodge, with its own regalia and ceremonies. I think it’s possible that masks and codenames are used … but I doubt if it’s solely for anonymity. Although, of course, that anonymity would be desirable amongst many of the Verdoy congregation.’

  ‘Why else would they use them?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Because, Albert, we humans like a ceremony, don’t we?’ answered Harley. ‘If you ritualise something it gives it … what’s the word?’

  ‘Gravitas?’ said Fellowes.

  ‘Yes, that’s it—it gives it gravitas. The church, parliament, the law courts, the old universities—they all use uniforms and rituals to legitimise, to create a hierarchy. And then there’s the exclusivity of it. After all, this is the elite club, right? The mask—and probably some kind of gown, there’s always a gown in these bloody things—will be a sign that you’ve been initiated into this exclusive club of influence.’

  ‘A persuasive argument, Harley,’ said Swales, drawing on his pipe as he picked up the Green Man mask from the desk. ‘But why this particular design? And why Verdoy?’

  ‘It’s symbolic, ain’t it? Verdoyer—to become green. It’s got to be about the rebirth of something.’

  ‘Imperial might, perhaps? With the developments in Ireland and India … well, the papers are forever lamenting the demise of our empire.’

  ‘I think that’s probably part of it. But, you know, having studied enough of Saint Clair’s speeches I think it goes back further than that. He’s always banging on about the moral and physical decline of the nation, right? The fact that losing all of those influential officers in the war—the cream of the Oxbridge universities and the public schools—has somehow watered down our population … As though all the poor Tommies that died made no difference at all … And all this heraldry schtick—the Lion Passant, Verdoy … well, that smacks to me of harking back to an older time, you know? The knights-of-old and all that bollocks. You yourself made reference to the fact that Earl Daubeney’s family can be traced back to Norman times, FW. The chivalrous knight, the aristocratic landowner, the gentleman’s code of honour—it’s ingrained in the national psyche, ain’t it? All those history books and Boy’s Own stories … Sir Walter Scott, King Arthur … After all, it’s when this whole nobility thing started, right?’

  Harley paused to spark up another Gold Flake, throwing the dead match into the general’s ashtray as he leant against the desk.

  ‘Then we come to the Palatines …’

  ‘Rome?’ asked Swales. ‘Palatine Hill and such?’

  ‘Well, that’s where the term originally comes from. But I’ve been doing some reading on this—in Norman times the County Palatines were the areas of jurisdiction governed by the earls, who swore allegiance to the King, but who ran their local area with a fair amount of independent power. I’ve got a file on Saint Clair back home—clippings from his reported speeches, propaganda leaflets, anything I can get my hands on.’

  ‘Know your enemy, George?’

  ‘You know it—you taught me that. Well, going through his speeches I found four independent references to medieval England—the old guilds, land ownership, vassals and Lords, that kind of thing—all just slipped in there, underlining a point he’s trying to make. And we all know he’s made no secret of his views on modern democracy, right?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think maybe this Verdoy thing could be about a renaissance of the feudal state; some kind of neo-feudalism. I reckon he wants to get back to a strict hierarchy of class, from peasant to King. A corporate state with an appointed government. Withdraw the representation of the people, divide the land up for local rule by appointed Palatines who all pledge allegiance to their glorious Fascist dictator—Sir Pelham Devereux Saint Clair. And you know what? Where better for it to work than good old class-obsessed Britain, eh?’

  ‘Come now, Harley, surely that’s a little far-fetched?’

  ‘Maybe. But surely no more far-fetched than some of the other drivel that Saint Clair has spouted in public.’ Harley leant forward and reached out for the Green Man mask. ‘But, you know, there’s still that niggle in my head—something that’s there …’ He stabbed at his temple. ‘… buried deep. Some connection between the Green Man and the Fascists.’

  ‘That’s all terribly interesting; but again, it’s just a theory. The only way we can really discover the significance of these Verdoy meetings, is to have an insider’s view.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Frederick,’ interjected Fellowes, ‘and we might just have that opportunity sooner than we expected.’

  ‘Go on, man!’

  ‘Well, I apologise for the short notice, but I only received the decoded communication half an hour before I arrived this morning. You see, this very evening, at twenty-one hundred hours, in his capacity as part of the Elite Bodyguard, our man Hamilton will be in attendance at just such a gathering.’

  ‘Really? A Verdoy Meeting? Do we have a location?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Fellowes, with just the slightest hint of smugness. ‘At Nailbourne House, a seventeenth century manor ten miles or so outside of Canterbury. The property is vacant at the moment—apparently the will of the owner is being contested—the only permanent residents are an elderly housekeeper and her husband. I took the liberty of having the warrant drawn up, sir; we simply require your authority to proceed.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Harley, tipping his hat to the back of his head. ‘You’re really going in after them?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Fellowes. ‘You see, Harley, if this little “Correction” of theirs is really scheduled for March the fifteenth, then time is of the essence.’

  ‘This warrant, Fellowes—I trust you chose the magistrate wisely?’ asked General Swales. ‘After all, we don’t want the Verdoy to get wind of our little sortie now, do we? One would imagine, with such an esteemed guest list—Justice Moreton amongst others—’ The General paused mid-sentence as he saw Harley slap himself on the thigh. ‘What is it, Harley? That little niggle finally crawled its way to the surface?’

  ‘No, not that. But it’s just dawned on me—that date: it’s the Ides of March!’

  ‘Beware the Ides of March, eh? D’you think that’s significant?’

  ‘Well,’ said Fellowes, ‘the date of the assassination of Julius Caesar—an act that precipitated the end of the Republic of Rome.’

  ‘That’s gonna be significant to Mussolini’s mob, ain’t it?’ added Harley.

  ‘The assassination of the PM?’ Swales asked Fellowes.

  ‘One would be foolish not to consider the possibility, Sir Frederic. But it’s just a hunch—it’s hardly enough to convince those that need convincing.’

  ‘Granted. But nevertheless, once we’re finished here I shall get on to the PM’s office and try to persuade them to cancel all public engagements for the fifteenth. I’ll say we’ve had some intelligence report regarding an unspecified threat.’

  ‘It’s certainly worth a try, sir.’

  Harley now stood up.

  ‘Listen, FW—Fellowes is right. If the Verdoy really are planning for it all to kick off on the fifteenth then this raid tonight is probably our last chance to round up the ringleaders and put a stop to it all. I wanna be in on the action—and don’t give me any old madam about me being an amateur now; you know I’m a safe pair of hands.’

  ‘Well,’ interjected Fellowes. ‘Remarkably, Harley, once again we seem to be in agreement. You see, owing to the covert nature of the operation—and not knowing exactly how far the collusion with the BBF has worked its way through the ranks of the establishment—we find ourselves rather limited in the choice of candidates for the raiding party this evening. I�
�ve already put your name down … along with Pearson here.’

  ‘That’s dandy!’ said Harley, cracking his knuckles and smiling at Pearson, who was looking a little less enthusiastic. ‘Can’t wait!’

  ‘Remember though, Harley,’ said Swales, knocking out his pipe into the ashtray. ‘This is a joint SIS and Special Branch outing. You’ll be taking orders from the relevant officer in charge, so none of your maverick improvisation on this one—strictly by the book, understood?’

  ‘Of course, FW. You know very well I can be a team player when I want to be.’

  ‘Hmm …’ muttered Swales, reaching for the telephone receiver, which had just started to ring.

  ‘Swales here … Really? When was this? … You have the address?’ He wrote something down on a pad in front of him. ‘Alright, keep your men there. I’m sending Harley and Pearson over immediately.’

  He replaced the receiver and smoothed down his moustache.

  ‘It would appear that you may have been correct about the Spitalfields bombing, Harley. There’s been another attempt on Lady Euphemia’s life.’

  ‘The bastards! Is she alright?’

  ‘I believe so, yes. The information is a little sketchy, but apparently it was another bomb; found by her maid, left on the doorstep of her apartment. Unexploded, thank God!’

  Harley was already on his feet, pulling on his overcoat. ‘You’ll need the address, man!’ cried Swales as the private detective disappeared out of the door.

  ‘It alright, sir,’ said Pearson, standing to button his own coat. ‘Between you and me I think Harley has taken rather a shine to Lady Euphemia. I would imagine he’s learnt her address off by heart.’

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry, sir—you can’t come in!’ said the young bobby, placing a hand on Harley’s chest as he tried to push his way through the open door of Euphemia’s apartment.

  ‘It’s alright, Constable—he’s with me. We’ve been sent by Commissioner Swales.’ Pearson flashed his warrant card and after contemplating the bandage around the DC’s head and Harley’s black-eye for a moment longer the young policeman stood to one side to let them pass.

  ‘Are Special Branch here?’

  ‘There’s one officer left, sir. He’s in the kitchen, talking to the maid—DS Bristow.’

  ‘And where’s Lady Euphemia, son?’ asked Harley.

  ‘I believe she’s in her bedroom, sir, having a lie down.’

  ‘Is she injured?’

  ‘No, don’t think so, sir. But I’ve not been here long—the DS should be able to fill you in, sir.’

  ‘Alright, as you were.’

  They entered the kitchen to find the young maid at the table, dabbing a screwed up handkerchief at eyes which were raw from crying.

  ‘Alright now, Violet, get a grip on yourself,’ said the broad-shouldered Special Branch officer sitting opposite her. ‘Have another sip of tea. That’s right … Now—are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me? I know you’ve been asked this already, but think carefully—can you think of any strangers that might have been hanging around the apartment block lately? Anyone acting suspiciously at all?’

  Violet shook her head quickly. She took a gulp of her tea and began to snivel again. Turning to see Harley and Pearson entering the room, the officer placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

  ‘Alright then, that’ll do for now. You sit there and finish your tea. I think we’ve got enough for the moment.’

  He stood up and ushered the two new arrivals into the adjacent living room—an opulent room adorned with an exquisite collection of modernist furniture and tasteful objects d’art.

  ‘DS Bristow,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘It’s George Harley, isn’t it? You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before—when you were SIS.’

  Harley ignored Pearson’s sideway glance at this comment.

  ‘Yeah, winter of twenty-three, stakeout at the Port of Dover. Nearly froze our balls off, as I seem to remember. It’s Danny, ain’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, George,’ said Bristow, shaking Harley’s hand.

  ‘This here’s DC Pearson. We’re both working directly for Swales on this one.’

  ‘Don’t worry—he’s already filled me in. Blimey! You two have been in the wars, haven’t you?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Enough said … So, what d’you need?’

  ‘Well, for starters—how is she?’

  ‘Lady Euphemia? Fine, not a scratch. She’s in her bedroom at the moment; said she was going to change, but my guess is she’s sick of watching us traipse about the place in our size nines.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well, from what we’ve got so far, it seems that the maid’s in the kitchen, doing her Ladyship’s ironing, when she hears the doorbell. She goes to answer the door but there’s no one there. She looks down on the mat and there’s a parcel, done up in brown paper and string, addressed to Lady Euphemia. No stamp, no address—obviously delivered by hand. She checks the corridor, but there’s not a soul around. So, thinking nothing of it, she picks up the parcel and puts it on the table with the rest of the post for her Ladyship to collect when she comes home. As she wanders back to the kitchen she hears the sound of a car engine racing away, happens to look out the window and sees …’ Bristow paused to refer to his notebook, ‘… a dark-coloured Austin 7, travelling at speed away from the apartment block.’

  Pearson exchanged a glance with Harley. ‘Is she sure it was an Austin 7?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ said Bristow. ‘Is that significant? After all, it’s a popular make.’

  ‘It might be,’ said Harley. ‘Go on though.’

  ‘Right, well, Lady Euphemia returns home around midday. Comes in, has a spot of lunch and then starts to open the post. When she gets to our parcel, the first thing she notices is that stuck to the lid of the box, under the brown paper, is a card addressed to “Daubeney’s Brat”. So straight away she knows something’s up; and that’s bloody good luck as it happens, because she’s now on her guard and so proceeds to open the box with caution. She teases the lid off and inside is a stick of ruddy dynamite!’

  ‘Any trigger mechanism on the lid? Timer? Ignition device?’ asked Harley.

  ‘No—just the dynamite on a little satin pillow. So it looks like it’s more of a warning, rather than an actual attempt to blow her up. Although, that said, the sapper from the Royal Engineers that came to deal with it said it looked highly unstable in his opinion; said he could see crystals on the paper where the nitro-glycerine had sweated out. Reckoned it could have gone up at any moment. His officer had him take it away for an immediate controlled explosion—out there, on the rec’. I bet that had all the curtains twitching. Expect we’ll get a few complaints in the morning.’

  ‘Did anyone get a photograph of the dynamite, before they blew it?’

  ‘No, the Army pulled rank, I’m afraid—matter of public safety. You can understand their point, I suppose. But if it’s the stamp on the wrapper that you’re after, George, then I did a quick sketch of it in my notepad … there you go.’ He flicked to the page in his pad and showed it to Harley and Pearson. ‘We’ve got your photograph on file of the one you found after the blast at Spitalfields. I will check when I get back to the office, but it looks the same to me—double-headed imperial Russian eagle. What d’you think?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the same. That was smart thinking, Danny… You say the sapper reckoned it was unstable?’

  ‘Some of the worst he’d seen, apparently.’

  ‘What makes dynamite unstable, then?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Age …’ said Harley, ‘… the way it’s been stored … extremes of temperature. After all, your stick of dynamite is just a sausage of sawdust soaked in nitro-glycerine, wrapped in paper with a blasting cap stuck on the end. Over time the nitro can just leak back out. The sappers stationed with us used to turn the boxes regularly to try to discourage it from happening.’

  ‘Well,’ sa
id Bristow, returning his notepad to the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘If that dynamite had travelled all the way from Russia, then it’s a fair bet that it’s been exposed to some extreme conditions.’

  ‘And maybe that also explains why an old pro like Kosevich managed to blow himself up.’

  ‘The door, Harley!’ said Pearson, excitedly.

  Harley span around to regard the doorway, but he couldn’t see what Pearson might be referring to.

  ‘Sorry, Albert?’

  ‘At Spitalfields, just before the blast—don’t you remember? The chauffeur, Kosevich, got out of the car and slammed the door shut. That’s when it went up.’

  ‘Christ! They were lucky here today, if that’s all it took,’ said Bristow. ‘Maybe it wasn’t just a warning? Maybe this was a serious attempt at assassination.’

  ‘Or maybe whoever’s handling the dynamite doesn’t realize what state it’s in,’ said Harley. ‘After all, as a method of eliminating someone it’s pretty hit and miss, ain’t it? Just sticking it in a box and hoping it gets shaken about enough … Plus, someone had to carry the bloody thing here in the first place. Nah—I think chances are it was just a warning; they just haven’t cottoned on to how unstable the stuff is. What about the box—anything unusual about it?’

  ‘Not really. No markings—just a plain, brown cardboard box. Unfortunately it went up in the controlled explosion—they didn’t want to risk handling the dynamite, I’m afraid. But we kept the calling card, of course. One of my DCs has taken it back to log it as evidence. Not much to go on there either, though: two words, typed, uppercase—“DAUBENEY’S BRAT”. Obviously we’ll be comparing the characteristics of the typeface and print indent with the Wild Cat letters sent to The Oracle, to see if there’s a match. I’ll get word to you if there is.’

  ‘Right—thanks, Danny. Anything else of note?’

  ‘No, I think that’s it.’

  Bristow looked over to the sleek Art Deco clock on the mantelpiece from which a patinated bronze Diana aimed her miniature bow in the direction of Maida Vale Tube station.