Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  Now turning the goblet upright he took hold of a small ivory-handled knife, its keen blade glinting in the flickering light of the candles.

  ***

  Harley watched Pearson as he wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow.

  ‘First time you’ve done this kind of thing, Albert?’

  ‘Pretty much so.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Good—that means you’re paying attention.’

  Pearson gave him a quick smile and then drew his Webley revolver, breaking it open to check the rounds in the scattered yellow light filtering through the foliage. ‘What firearm have they issued you, Harley?’

  ‘I told ’em I didn’t want one.’ The private detective held up his right hand to show its thick casing of brass knuckles. ‘This’ll do me.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding! Why?’

  ‘I’ve just got a thing about using shooters, that’s all.’

  ‘But what happens if we come up against someone pointing a gun?’

  ‘Well, Albert, I didn’t say I had a thing about you using a shooter, did I? If that happens, then that’s your cue to shoot their bloody ’ead off! Only joking, son. Remember what the CO said—use it judiciously.’

  ***

  A swift jab with the point of the keen blade drew a jewel of blood on the recruit’s fingertip.

  ‘… to endure all things necessary for the accomplishment of the Correction,’ he said, allowing the burgeoning droplet to fall into the chalice, ‘… to have faith in the surviving stock of my own people, and to love them as I love the English soil from which they sprang …’ He took a generous pinch of salt from an earthenware bowl and sprinkled it in with the blood, then tore off a wad of dark rye bread from a loaf next to the bowl. ‘… to endeavour to help develop the corporate life of the nation and promote the social efficiency and racial health of its people.’

  He kissed the bread and dropped it into the chalice before placing his hand over the top.

  ‘In making this oath I acknowledge that the time has come to recognize the inevitability of violence and sacrifice, and hereby pledge to do my utmost to help correct the moral and social turpitude of the English nation!’

  ‘Perish Judah!’ cried the gathering in unison. ‘All hail the Verdoy!’

  ***

  Harley checked his watch and looked towards the large bay window, under which agent Dickie Coleshaw was crouching with a group of burly Special Branch officers.

  ‘I make it a-quarter-to, Albert … Ah! There we go—there’s the signal. We’re off!’

  Harley made a quick leap to the pair of French windows where he deftly slipped the catch with a small penknife. Harley, Pearson and two other officers entered the dimly lit drawing room, established that it was vacant, and then slipped through into a long dark corridor, searching for the stairs to the basement level. At the same time Coleshaw’s crew forced their way through a dining room window and Straker’s men dropped through a grate in a light-well running along the rear elevation of the building. At the front of the manor house the main entry door was quickly forced and Chesterton—along with Commander “Snip” Taylor—led his men in across the chequered tiling of the lobby and up the cantilevered staircase to search the upper floors.

  ***

  In the vaulted cellar the robed figure filled the chalice from an earthenware jug.

  ‘Take this chalice and drink thereof so you might cleanse your mind of the poisonous influence of the seditious foreigner. May it show you the true way and open your inner eye to the wisdom of our forefathers.’

  He offered it to the initiate who drained the cup in one draught.

  ‘Perish Judah! Hail the Verdoy!’ chanted the small congregation again.

  ‘And so we welcome another into our hallowed midst, brothers; and let him be known as Gramercy.’

  The guests now raised their own goblets in a toast to their new member.

  ‘Welcome, Brother Gramercy!’

  The Verdoy priest placed a hand on the newcomer’s shoulder and moved his masked face in close to whisper.

  ‘Remember—the secret is to relax. It is only a very mild dose, but any anxiety you harbour will be amplified by the hallucinogen.’

  Two Blackshirt guards now escorted “Brother Gramercy” out of the door. It was obvious from his unsteady gait that the initiate was already beginning to feel the effects of the drugged mead.

  His exit being taken as a signal that the official proceedings were over, the room soon began to fill with the hubbub of relaxed conversation as the guests got to their feet and made their way slowly to the door. Nobody, however, removed their mask. As they left one of the guests joined the robed figure at the head of the table.

  ‘Brother Perceval—if I might have a word?’

  ‘Certainly, Brother Lion Passant—nothing amiss, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all, old chap; just a little chat … but perhaps somewhere a little more discreet?’

  ‘Yes, yes—of course.’

  The two men passed through a thick metal-banded door at the back of the room, into a small, makeshift sitting room.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Sir Pelham Saint Clair, removing his mask and walking over to a small trolley holding a decanter and soda siphon. ‘You know, I rather like what you’ve done with the ceremony, Giles; the oath has just the right weight to it, if you see what I mean. And succinct as well—doesn’t drag on like so much of the usual Lodge drivel.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Pelham,’ said Reverend Pembroke, removing his own mask to reveal a rather florid complexion. ‘Symbolism not too obvious, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all, old man—nice touch, I’d say. Of course, if all goes to plan we’ll need you to contribute a lot more of the same.’

  He offered a glass of scotch and soda to the vicar.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pembroke, taking the drink and going to sit in one of the leather armchairs surrounding a small coffee table. ‘It would be an honour, of course.’

  The Fascist leader flashed his charming smile as he poured himself a drink.

  ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Giles, I’d just like you to come and have a look at something—through here …’

  Pembroke looked to another small, battered door set into the far end wall.

  ‘Through there? But that’s where they keep the coal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes … and other things. You see, I have something in there I’d like you to see. Something, I think, that might be of interest to you.’

  ‘Really? Why, of course then.’

  A little puzzled by the request, Pembroke stood up and grabbed his mask from the table.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother with that old thing, Giles—after all, I should hope that we all know each other well enough by now.’

  After a forceful shove on the ancient door the Baronet led the way into the small vaulted coal hole. Inside, playing a hand of cards at a baize-covered gaming table, were Ludovico Girardi and Iron Billy Boyd. But what grabbed Pembroke’s immediate attention was the figure in the middle of the blackened floor, gagged and bound tightly to a wooden chair.

  ‘Giles, I’d like you to meet Joe Schmidt.’

  ‘But … but, what’s going on here, Sir Pelham?’ said the vicar nervously, as he looked from the captive’s Blackshirt uniform to the angry wound on his temple. ‘Surely this is one of our own men—what exactly has he done? Why on earth do you have him tied up like that?’

  With a smile Girardi now lay down his cards and rose to walk over to the prisoner.

  ‘Si—he would like us to think he is one of our own, Padre. But, you see, we know better, don’t we?’ The Italian bent down, grabbing a handful of the prisoner’s hair. ‘… Commander Joseph Hamilton!’

  ‘Commander? But I don’t understand …’ said Pembroke, taking an involuntary step backwards, towards the exit.

  Saint Clair moved behind him, drawing the bolt.

  ‘It’s quite straightforward, G
iles. You see—I’m afraid we’ve been infiltrated.’

  ‘Infiltrated?’ Pembroke looked around him for a moment, as if he were expecting to discover a team of assassins hiding in the pile of coal. He took a gulp of his whisky. ‘Infiltrated by whom, for goodness sake?’

  ‘The Secret Intelligence Service,’ said Saint Clair, bending to speak into the ear of the partially conscious Hamilton. ‘I’m guessing that’s your little outfit, Hamilton? After all, you’re not Special Branch … we’d know if you were Special Branch.’ He straightened up and patted the prisoner on the head. ‘Extremely talented fellow, this one, Giles—been working his way through the ranks for months now. As you can see from the uniform, he’s made it all the way to the Elite Bodyguard. It’s a pity he’s playing for the other side, really—could do a lot with a useful chap like that. Ah, well! Of course, the most galling aspect is that we believed he was spying for us, amongst the rookeries of the East End … damned inconvenient!’

  The gagged Hamilton dropped his chin onto his chest, prompting Girardi to yank his head up again by the hair.

  Saint Clair smiled and continued on.

  ‘It was only due to an exceptional piece of work by Brother Boyd here that we happened to stumble across his little secret.’

  Boyd gave a self-conscious smile.

  ‘That’s right, Reverend,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and puffing his chest a little. ‘See, I was tailing up that sherlock George Harley and his bogey mate. Followed ’em to this one’s gaff in Stepney, little social visit—probably ’ad tea and cake, I shouldn’t wonder!’ The old prize-fighter’s deep laugh reverberated around the small vault.

  ‘Did you say George Harley?’ said Pembroke. ‘Isn’t that the private detective fellow that Earl Daubeney was talking about? But he was at the welfare drop-in, the night of the explosion—he saw me there … We were introduced, for goodness sake! Saints preserve us! However much do they know?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we intend to find out, Giles,’ said Saint Clair, having lost his smile.

  ‘Let’s not be rash now, gentlemen,’ said Pembroke, looking decidedly anxious. ‘I mean, if this man is working for the SIS … well then, he’s a government agent, isn’t he? We shouldn’t compound the problem with more violence—surely it would be better to merely keep him locked up somewhere? Of course, we should be vigorous in our questioning, but, after all … Well, what I mean is—he knows our identities, doesn’t he? You know, Sir Pelham, I really don’t understand why we took our masks off.’

  ‘The time has come to recognize the inevitability of violence and sacrifice—those were the words I believe, Giles?’

  ‘Yes … yes, they were.’

  ‘Your words, Giles?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  Pembroke found it hard to hold the Fascist leader’s steely eye.

  ‘You ask why we removed our masks? Well you see, it’s simply because there’s no need to keep our identities from Commander Hamilton.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Ludovico, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  Girardi took a small leather holdall from Boyd, out of which he produced a chrome-plated hypodermic syringe.

  ‘The bite of the Rye Wolf!’ said Girardi, his leer stretching his scar.

  Hamilton raised an unsteady head and tried to focus on the syringe being brandished in front of his eyes.

  ‘The latest formula,’ added Saint Clair. ‘The most ferocious to date … and, of course, nothing like the angel’s kiss of your ceremonial mead, Giles. You see, this stuff’s a hundred times the potency.’

  ‘But that’ll kill him!’

  ‘Oh—let’s not be melodramatic, now. I doubt that it will actually see the poor blighter off. But his mind will be ruined, of course. He’ll spend the rest of his days in an asylum; a dribbling, feeble-minded, cretin. And on the way to that unfortunate state, well—who knows? After all, we’re in uncharted waters … Of course, we’re hoping that the drug will act as a kind of truth serum, and that we discover exactly how much the authorities know of our plans. It should be an interesting experiment, whatever the outcome.’

  Pembroke polished off his whisky, his hand beginning to shake a little. He placed the empty glass on the floor, noticing that Boyd had moved to guard the exit, his huge arms, with their biceps bulging in the tight-fitting Blackshirt uniform, crossed menacingly over his chest.

  ‘Tell me something, Sir Pelham.’

  ‘What is it, Giles?’

  ‘Why exactly have you brought me here to witness this? After all, I’m sure we’d all agree that this strong-arm business, well—it’s not really my forte, is it?’

  ‘Oh, let’s call it a demonstration, old man. You see, it’s been reported that your feet might be getting a little cold; that for all the wonderful rhetoric that you bring to the wording of our Verdoy ceremonies you might not actually have your heart in it all any more. Perhaps it’s all becoming a little too rich for your blood?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ said Pembroke, sounding a little desperate as he shook his head vigorously. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve heard, Sir Pelham, but I can assure you that I am as fully committed to the cause as I’ve ever been.’

  ‘Well, I’m jolly glad to hear that, Giles. Because, you see, the truth is that we couldn’t possibly do without you; not at this late stage of the game. And, besides, you know far too much, old man. After all, you’ve been involved from the very start, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes … quite.’

  ‘We thought we might demonstrate to you just how irrelevant the old powers really are in the light of our brave new future. This man before you is an agent of a government that has squandered its authority, and will soon be a by-line in the nation’s history books. You will observe as we simply snuff out this threat. And, of course, if you’re a wise man, Reverend, there’s also a lesson to be learnt here about how the Verdoy deal with a traitor … Gentlemen—please continue.’

  Boyd now took his place at the side of the prisoner and gripped his head in his powerful hands, turning it to expose the jugular furrow. The Italian flourished the syringe at Pembroke and then hunched over Hamilton’s neck, pushing the needle into the bulging vein.

  ‘Now feel the wolf bite, my friend!’

  ***

  Having met up with Straker’s men in the darkened corridor Harley and Pearson were now quietly descending a curved flight of stone steps, smoothed and scalloped by centuries of use. At the foot of the steps Straker pointed to a closed door and indicated to keep quiet. After pushing his ear against the gnarled timber for a moment, the SIS agent placed his hand on the rusted iron catch and carefully lifted it. With their weapons drawn the men quickly spread out into the vaulted cellar, with one particularly burly officer remaining at the base of the stairs to stand guard.

  Pearson’s heart began to race as he gripped his Webley a little tighter to steady his hand. But it seemed that the room was empty—apart from a collection of old packing cases and tea chests. He took a moment to regain his composure and looked to find Harley, who he soon found moving swiftly and quietly amongst the shadows of the boxes stacked in one of the corners. It seemed to Pearson that the private detective had shed a decade or so since they’d made their entrance into the manor house, and his movements were as lithe and alert as any of the team of mostly younger professionals. He guessed that his colleague was probably running on some kind of feral instinct, picked up on the streets of the East End and honed on the battlefields of France.

  Pearson now checked himself, realizing that he’d let his guard drop a little. He turned to the far end of the room where Straker’s right-hand man—a small, wiry individual he’d heard addressed as “Corky”—was crouching at another, smaller door and holding his finger to his lips to demand complete silence.

  Even from where he was standing Pearson could hear the distinct sound of someone calling out in anguish from the other side of the door. Then came the scream.

  In an instant Corky—w
ith his colleagues amassing behind him—had forced the door with his boot and was inside, training his revolver on the centre of the room, at the source of the screaming … a Jackson Bell radio set, tuned to Conrad Spalding’s Thriller Hour.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ muttered Straker, pushing through the throng of men to look at the radiogram, which was perched on a stool in the otherwise empty storeroom.

  Two of the Special Branch officers now raised their weapons instinctively as a shot rang out from the loudspeaker.

  Harley raised a hand to check them.

  ‘Easy there, fellas!’ He pocketed his brass knuckles, walked to the radio set and switched it off, retrieving a small leaflet poking out from under the Bakelite case.

  ‘You can put those squirters away gents—I don’t think you’ll be needing ’em tonight,’ he said, holding up the flyer which read: Money spent with Jews never returns to Gentile pockets—JOIN THE BBF!

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Yes, come on, Harley,’ said Straker, taking a step towards the private detective. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it? We’ve been set up.’

  Straker thought for a moment; then nodding slowly, holstered his weapon.

  ‘I take it the tip-off from Hamilton was that the ceremony would be taking place at basement level?’ asked Harley.

  ‘Yes, it was … You know, I thought it was odd that there were no vehicles parked in the drive.’

  ‘Should we continue the search of the rest of the premises, sir?’ asked Corky.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, but have someone inform Colonel Chesterton of what we’ve discovered here—as soon as possible.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Wait! Quiet!’ hissed Straker, drawing his weapon again. ‘Footsteps … on the stairs.’

  Stealthily the men made their way back to the lobby area where a flickering light could be seen descending the steps.

  The elderly Hilda Braithwaite—resplendent in her hairnet and winceyette dressing gown—held her candle up to illuminate the basement lobby. She’d expected to discover the vanishing tails of a few scurrying rodents, and so it was understandable that the sight of the eight service revolvers now aiming directly at her head came as somewhat of a surprise.