CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘No pushing and shoving now, ladies and gentlemen, please!’ shouted the uniformed bobby as the audience filed past on their way to the exits. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree we’ve had enough excitement for one evening without having to deal with casualties getting crushed on the way out!’
Harley appeared on the staircase from the upper levels, fighting hard against the current of people, pushing his way through to get to the policeman.
‘General Swales—where is he constable?’
‘It’s Mr. Harley, isn’t it? You alright, sir? You look a bit peaky. Need a medic for that hand, sir?’
‘Not just yet, I need to see the Commissioner first.’
‘I’m afraid General Swales left with the Royal party, sir—armed escort back to the palace.’
‘Right … D’you know where Commander Taylor got to then, son?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
‘What about the Italian—that nutcase on stage—have they pinched him?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just on the evacuation detail, Mr. Harley—the Special Branch lads are dealing with that side of things.’
Harley went to tip his hat back, but discovered that he’d left it up on the catwalk. He reached into his jacket for a Gold Flake—but the packet had obviously been crushed in all the excitement and all that was left of his cigarettes was a crumpled mess of torn paper and tobacco.
‘Here you go, Mr. Harley,’ said the policeman, offering a packet of Player’s. ‘Have one of mine—you look like you could do with a smoke.’
‘Blimey! That makes a change—very decent of you, son,’ said Harley, wearily, as he took the cigarette.
‘George! George! Over here!’
Harley went up on tip-toes to see above the tide of punters, spotting DS Bristow at the far end of the corridor.
‘Danny! What’s the score with Girardi?’
‘This way, George! You’re needed downstairs. I’ll fill you in on the way.’
Harley fought his way slowly through the crowd, finally making it back into the auditorium where the last remnants of the stalls were being evacuated.
‘It’s over here, George!’ shouted the Special Branch officer, striding down the aisle to an exit door at the right of the stage. ‘We’ll go down the back stairs.’
‘So, what about the Italian—did we get him?’ said Harley, following Bristow through the door and onto a wooden staircase leading down.
‘Oh, he shan’t be going anywhere fast—don’t you worry about that. It was your partner, DC Pearson who got him in the end, you know.’
‘Nice one, Albert! Cor, I bet the lad’s made up, ain’t he? Strutting like a peacock?’
Bristow stopped on the stairs and turned to Harley with a concerned look.
‘That’s the thing, George—the kid took a bullet; it looks bad, mate.’
‘Shit!’ said Harley, pushing past Bristow, taking the steps two at a time. ‘Where is he?’
‘Keep going! All the way to the bottom and then through the little door on the left … they’re in the under-stage area.’
***
Harley pushed through the door into a space cluttered with trunks and theatrical props, and dimly illuminated by a few spluttering gas fittings.
‘Albert!’ he shouted, quickly making his way through the teetering piles of equipment towards a group gathered around a figure lying on the floor.
Pearson lay motionless on an old ermine-trimmed robe, his head propped up on a sandbag. His shirt was ripped open to reveal a small angry wound an inch or so above the nipple.
‘What are you doing? You can’t give up just like that!’ shouted Harley at the bespectacled, balding individual who had just snapped shut his Gladstone bag and was being helped up off the floor by Colonel Chesterton.
‘Well, there’s nothing left to do. You see I—’
Harley grabbed the doctor by the jacket lapels and yanked him forward.
‘What d’you mean, nothing left to do? Have you even treated a gunshot wound before?’
Chesterton jumped between the two men, forcing Harley’s hands to his side.
‘That’ll do, Harley! Now just calm down a moment, won’t you? Let us explain.’
Harley pulled his hands free and took a step back, glaring at the physician.
‘That’s better … Now, listen,’ said the Colonel. ‘This is Doctor Wilkes. He was on duty backstage—a precaution in case the magician’s illusion went wrong. Slightly ironic under the circumstances, I know, but the point is—luckily for Pearson—Doctor Wilkes was on the scene within a couple of minutes at the most.’
‘Luckily for Pearson?’ repeated Harley, glancing down at his partner on the floor, who now emitted a low groan. ‘You mean he’s gonna be alright?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say it was quite as straight forward as all that,’ said Wilkes, straightening his jacket and then taking his glasses off to polish them. ‘But your friend has been extremely lucky. You see, the bullet passed through his shoulder holster—the thick leather considerably reduced the force of the shot. It was in an upward angle. The slug’s still in there somewhere, but the lung’s sound, and his hand seems to be getting a good blood supply—so it would appear that the subclavian artery was missed. Damned lucky, I’d say … But, of course, he’s not out of the woods yet. We don’t know what damage has been done to the brachial plexus—he may suffer some permanent nerve damage which could affect the use of that arm. I have him heavily sedated. The important thing now is not to move the shoulder too much before we can get him into theatre. The ambulance is on its way.’ The doctor replaced his glasses and grabbed his bag from the floor. ‘Oh, and in answer to your question, Mr. Harley—yes, I do know a little about gunshot wounds, thank you; came across one or two of them as an RMO at the front, you know … Now, if you need me, gentlemen, I shall be upstairs in the performers’ rest area. I assume you require me to certify the deaths of those not quite as fortunate as DC Pearson here?’
‘Thank you, Doctor—if you would; although I believe there’s someone from the Coroner’s Office on the way.’
‘Solly!’ shouted Harley. ‘What about Solly Rosen, Colonel? Don’t tell me he’s one of the ones who bought it?’
‘Rosen took a knife to the thigh, George,’ said Chesterton. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, but the doc says he’ll pull through, no problem.’
‘I should say,’ added Wilkes. ‘The man has the constitution of an ox. They’ve taken him to St Thomas’s.’
‘Thank Christ for that! Can you get someone to let his wife Marni know?’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Chesterton.
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Wilkes, walking off towards the exit. ‘I shall make a start upstairs then.’
‘Yeah, thanks Doc!’ Harley called after him. ‘And sorry! You know—for earlier.’
The private detective now approached his injured partner, squatting down to place a hand on the unconscious policeman’s arm.
‘There he is—our little country cousin … What did I tell you about messing around with those sodding shooters, eh? Still, national hero now, ain’t yer, Albert? Wounded defending King and country … I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a gong in it for you. Don’t you worry now—they’ll patch you up alright.’
‘What about you, Harley?’ said Chesterton. ‘You’ll need to get that hand seen to.’
‘Oh, I’ve had worse. I’ll get the doc to have a quick butcher’s before I go.’
Harley stood up and massaged the back of his neck. ‘But I’m dog-tired, that’s for sure!’ He pulled up a large label-covered trunk to use as a seat and retrieved the bobby’s cigarette from behind his ear.
‘So, what about that cowson Girardi, Colonel? Has he shopped all his Verdoy mates yet?’
‘No … I’m afraid our Signor Girardi isn’t going to be of much help in that department, George.’
‘Oh, really? What—claiming the old diplomatic immunity bo
llocks, is he?’
‘Not exactly, no … Actually, he’s just around the corner if you’d care to take a look …’
The Colonel now led Harley through a tight passageway between stacks of chairs into an area where a set of props from a recent patriotic review was being stored. The uniformed PC, stationed amongst the plethora of union flags, lions and unicorns, quickly extinguished his cigarette under his boot and stood to attention when he saw the Colonel and Harley approaching.
Chesterton pointed to the ceiling to where the stage trapdoor still hung open, offering a framed view of the brightly lit theatre above. On the floor directly below the trapdoor was the upper portion of a large stage-prop statue of Britannia.
And there—impaled on the tines of her trident, staining the plaster-of-Paris forearm with a dark trail of congealing blood—was the lifeless body of Ludovico Girardi.
Harley gave a shocked laugh and walked around to the front of the statue to get a better view. He whistled and shook his head, then turned to the uniformed policeman.
‘Here, you got your patrol lamp there, son?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the bobby, unhitching his Wootton lantern from his belt.
‘Give us a bit of light, then—shine it up there on matey, would yer?’
The policeman flicked the switch on the lamp and cast its beam onto the demonic painted face with its lifeless, glassy eyes.
Harley got his Leica out and crouched down to compose the picture.
‘Say cheese, you Fascist bastard,’ he murmured, clicking off a couple of shots. ‘Thanks, pal—that’ll do nicely.’
The bobby nodded and put away the lantern.
The private detective took one more look at the bizarre scene, shook his head, and turned to Chesterton.
‘Rule Britannia, eh Colonel?’ he said. And with that he was off to say his farewells to Pearson and then away home to Bell Street—for a fish supper and an early night.
EPILOGUE
Harley took a last drag on his Gold Flake, crushed the butt with his heel, and strode back through the wrought iron gates into the cemetery. Despite the promises of the Met Office Britain was still in the grip of an unseasonal cold snap and the private detective turned his collar up against the damp chill as he made his way downhill to rejoin the entourage now gathering around the freshly-dug grave.
A pool of fog was forming in the hollow of the cemetery drive and Harley slowed his pace a little to gaze at the stonework shrouded in mist on either side of him: the headstones pockmarked with lichen, and the weather-gnawed features of angels watching from the shadows of the yews, lamenting the mortality of Victorian merchants and soldiers of the Empire.
In these gloomy surroundings he found his thoughts turning once more to the day of Cynthia’s funeral almost three years previously; he felt again the creeping sense of desolation, like tendrils of smog seeping into him, imagining it crystallising in his gut, sharp and toxic.
It had been this same feeling of despair that had forced him from the church service earlier, undoubtedly triggered by the sight of little eight-year-old William Chadwick Jnr., whisked back from boarding school to bury his father—one moment the proud son of “The Great Medini”, with all the kudos that brought him in the dormitory, the next standing bravely in his oversized mourning suit, clutching tightly to his mother’s hand as he fought back the tears.
There had been something in that look of terrified helplessness in the eight-year-old’s eyes that had sent Harley pushing his way through the packed pew, out into the graveyard, to lose himself in the fog … and to dwell on memories of Cynthia.
‘Sod off, Black Dog!’ murmured Harley, and pulled the hip flask from his pocket. He took a quick slug of scotch and pushed on through the mist.
***
‘Ah! There you are, George!’ said General Swales as Harley joined him at the graveside a few minutes later. ‘I saw you leaving the service—everything all right, old man?’
‘Yeah … it’s just churches; they make me a bit jittery, you know?’
‘Understandable, I suppose—what with that business with Pembroke,’ said Swales, offering a consolatory smile.
‘So, you were saying, earlier,’ said Harley, eager to change the subject, ‘about Boyd?’
‘Ah yes! Well, he’s been a godsend, George—singing like a canary. His statement reads like a novel.’
‘The Memoirs of a Verdoy Bodyguard, eh?’
‘Indeed. You see, working as Girardi’s henchman, Boyd was right at the centre of it all. We have names, dates, places—the whole shooting match. Of course, some of those involved are highly influential; it’ll be no easy task securing convictions for every Verdoy member named by Boyd. After all, many of them will have recourse to the finest defence counsel in the land—I can foresee a few tough months ahead of us.’
‘And the Prince of Wales?’ said Harley, lowering his voice.
Swales looked anxiously at the group of mourners standing only a few feet away.
‘Come now, George, you know I couldn’t possibly discuss that here.’
Harley tipped his hat back and gave a sigh.
‘You’ve got enough on Saint Clair, though—right? Please don’t tell me that cowson’s gonna walk away from this!’
‘Oh, I’m almost certain the weight of evidence is too much for even Sir Pelham to wriggle his way out of. And, of course, he’ll never have a career in politics again … He’s become persona non grata in society circles, by all accounts.’
‘My heart bleeds,’ said Harley.
‘No doubt you’ve heard that Box-Hartnell has resigned, as well?’
‘Good riddance to old rubbish, I say … You’ll still be going after him for his Verdoy connections though?’
‘Indubitably!’
Harley contemplated the crowd of mourners for a moment, recognizing a few famous faces amongst the fellow performers that had come to pay their respects to “The Great Medini”.
‘And what about her, FW? Old Lady Macbeth herself?’
‘Euphemia Daubeney? Ruled unfit to stand trial at this stage. She’s been detained under a reception order, and will be re-assessed in a few months time. But I must say, it’s looking unlikely that she’ll ever recover sufficiently to go to court.’
‘Or be released?’
‘I’m no expert in these matters, George, but one would imagine the two things go hand in hand … But anyway, the main thing is that we stopped the Verdoy coup, keeping Britain a free and democratic land—surely you’d agree with that?’
‘A kind of democracy, I s’pose … but for how long, eh? You said it yourself—most of these Fascists were highly influential people; how long before someone else has another pop at it? Just look how popular the BBF had become. No, there’ll always be a percentage of the masses that lap that kind of stuff up. And when something like that’s allowed to get big enough … well, there’s a whole load of mugs who just go along with it—either too scared or too stupid to stand up and be counted. Look at Mussolini in Italy … or that little bastard with the Chaplin moustache on the up over in Berlin … “The penalty good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men”.’
‘That’s very astute, George—yours?’
‘No, FW—that’s Plato.’
‘Ah …’
‘Mine would be more like: “If you spend all your time buzzing round a cow’s arse, don’t be surprised if you end up eating shit!”’
‘Well, it has a certain rough poetry to it, I suppose … Ah, here comes Mrs. Chadwick,’ said the General, raising his cap to the demure figure in black making her way towards them across the damp grass. ‘My most sincere condolences, my dear … and may I say what a brave and heartfelt eulogy that was.’
‘Thank you, General,’ said Gladys Chadwick, her voice breaking a little with emotion. ‘Your assistance with organizing the day has been … I mean, I couldn’t have …’ She steeled herself and continued. ‘William would have been very proud.’
‘Yes … yes, he was.’ The widow slipped a lace handkerchief under her veil to dab at her eyes. ‘Now, gentlemen, I really must get on … but I wonder if you’d both do me a favour?’
‘Of course, anything,’ said Swales.
‘It just that I sent a personal message, you see—to the Pearsons. After all, DC Pearson was the one who … who rescued me from … from …’
General Swales laid a reassuring hand on Gladys’ shoulder. She took a moment to compose herself and then continued.
‘But, of course, Mr. Pearson is still in hospital, recovering from his injuries. So Mrs. Pearson is here on her own; she’ll not know anyone … I thought you might keep her company?’
‘Why, of course,’ said Swales, scanning the crowd. ‘Where is she?’
‘Just over there, I’ll introduce you.’
‘No need, my dear—we’ve already met.’
‘Ah, here’s the Reverend—I’m afraid I need to …’
‘Please don’t let us keep you, Mrs. Chadwick—and if there’s anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Bless you General, and you Mr. Harley.’
Harley and Swales now made their way over to the policeman’s wife, who was standing under a yew tree, looking a little self-conscious as she clutched her shiny new handbag to her chest with both hands. She relaxed a little when she caught sight of Swales approaching.
‘Oh, General Swales! I am pleased to see you!’
‘June, my dear—how are you?’
‘Just fine, thank you,’ she said, her soft voice coloured with its West Country inflection. ‘Oh, but isn’t it sad? Did you see that little mite in the church—such a brave little soldier.’
‘Indeed, a terrible business … But, tell me—how’s our hero doing? I hear the doctors are still pleased with the pace of his recovery.’
‘Yes, General, it’s all mending nicely, apparently. But when I think about what could have happened … Well, I don’t mind telling you—it gives me nightmares!’
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