The Phantom

by Jack Murray

  -

  The Ritz dining room was humming with activity. All around Kit and Mary, the serving staff machine purred with efficiency. Rich people eating even richer food in sumptuous surroundings.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want sweet?’ asked Kit looking down at the space on the table where Mary’s dessert should have been.

  ‘Would you have me like one of those ladies that Rubens, or his assistants, liked to paint?’ responded Mary, with a mock frown.

  ‘No, I rather like you as you are. Your discipline is to be admired. In fact, I rather look forward to spending many a happy hour admiring the results of your discipline,’ said Kit tucking into a tiramisu with relish. This proved too much for the Spartan warrior in front of him, and she deftly removed the spoon from Kit’s hand and tried some for herself.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Mary, handing back the spoon and wiping some cream from the side of her mouth with her finger in a way that made Kit consider seriously booking a room there and then.

  The momentary and blissful distraction over, Kit asked Mary, ‘How about we skip the Royal Academy today and head over Whitehall direction?’

  Mary brightened at this idea, ‘The London Conference, can we get in?’

  ‘We might be able to see some of the stir. I doubt we’d get into the committee rooms though.’

  Miller collected the couple on Piccadilly and Kit told him of the change in plan.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  A few minutes later Miller dropped them off on Whitehall. They walked towards a building where a small crowd was assembled. There were policemen standing outside the building watching the various groups. A handful of men and women were holding up banners demanding Kurdish independence. A small group nearby had similar placards related to a Jewish homeland. Dark-suited men of varying nationality entered and exited from the building, straight into waiting cars. The level of security seemed somewhat disproportionate to the threat suggested Mary. Kit smiled, recent events had shown him that danger could come from the least expected places.

  ‘Isn’t that your friend Spunky over there by the entrance?’ said Mary pointing towards the building.

  ‘Good Lord. So it is,’ said Kit, laughing. He started to wave hoping to attract Spunky’s attention. Eventually Mary walked over to a policeman and pointed to Spunky. The policeman gladly obliged and went over to Kit’s friend.

  ‘I was just about to do that,’ said Kit.

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d save you the bother,’ replied Mary archly.

  Spunky arrived with a delighted look on his face. Kit’s friend was tall, and certainly striking, with an eye patch in one eye, courtesy of the War and a monocle in the other. His features were completed by a pencil-thin moustache which made him look, handsome, ridiculous and brigand-like by turn. Not that Spunky cared a jot.

  ‘I say bloodhound, this is a stroke. I was meaning to get in touch with you. Lady Mary, so good to see you,’ said Spunky, ‘May I kiss the bride-to-be?’

  ‘You may and while you’re at it you should tell your friend to get a move on before I become an old maid,’ pointed out Mary as Spunky, not waiting for a response, planted kissed on both cheeks, continental style.

  ‘Are they letting any of the general public in?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Spunky, ‘Come this way.’ Spunky led the couple up to the same policeman who had helped Mary and said a few words. Moments later Kit and Mary were through the cordon and standing on the steps of the building.

  ‘I don’t have a lot of time Kit, are you free tomorrow morning to pop over to Holland Park?’

  Kit looked at Mary, who smiled and nodded. This surprised Kit, but Mary just shrugged innocently. Kit’s thoughts on why Mary was being so reasonable were interrupted by a commotion behind them. George Curzon, 1st Earl Curzon of Kedleston, former Viceroy of India and now the Foreign Secretary for His Majesty’s Government, was bounding down the steps, face like thunder, with a policeman in tow. He stopped briefly as he spotted Kit before thinking better of it and walking on.

  Mary looked up at Kit, frowning, ‘Something else you neglected to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, forgot that bit,’ admitted Kit, grinning sheepishly, like a schoolboy caught red-handed in the tuck shop. Changing the subject he turned to Spunky and said, ‘Why are you here? I thought you left spying to the boys on the factory floor.’

  ‘I do, dear boy, I do. But as it’s on my doorstep, I thought I might pop along and see if I could pick up some useful titbits.’ Spunky had a genius for logistics and could turn talk of widgets into detailed analysis of the military-industrial economy. His interest in obtaining this information from primary sources, himself, was limited. He much preferred analysing the information obtained by others.

  Kit smiled at his friend. The smile, Mary noted, seemed sympathetic rather than mocking. This was confirmed a moment later by Kit’s cryptic question.

  ‘Have you seen any old French friends?’

  Spunky’s face seemed a little rueful for a moment, ‘No. Sadly no sighting on that front.’ Mary stored this away for further inquiry later. ‘However, where one door closes another opens up, so to speak. I’ve been up at Dawn a lot recently,’ continued Spunky, looking at Kit directly.

  Mary detected the trace of a smile, or at least an attempt to hide a smile, on Kit’s face. Another question was heading her future husband’s way. A couple of minutes later, Spunky had to leave. Kit and Mary bid farewell and descended the steps.

  ‘What did you friend mean, up at Dawn a lot, by the way?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Early morning walks?’ responded Kit to her query, walking a few feet in front of Mary.

  Mary speeded up to fall in step alongside him.

  ‘Look me in the eye Lord Aston,’ said Mary laughing. By now Kit was laughing also.

  Chapter 12

  February 14th, 1920: London

  Mary woke groaning as the five o’clock alarm blasted a rather pleasant dream involving Kit, a punt and a secluded spot underneath a willow tree out of her head at an inopportune point in that narrative. She trooped blindly to the bathroom muttering words that were all too lady-like when men were not around to declare them unladylike.

  Alfred was waiting downstairs twenty minutes later looking, if it were possible, even more bleary-eyed. Agatha was pippedness personified in a hideous patchwork dressing gown and hairnet.

  ‘Come on then, get weaving,’ urged Agatha, as she saw Mary come down the stairs. Agatha and Betty had reported that Caroline Hadleigh had returned around four o’clock the previous afternoon, along with, what they agreed, was a bag large enough to contain a change of clothing. Both had come through their reconnaissance mission unscathed, fortified by, what Mary suspected, was a significant amount of gin.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to take my place,’ said Mary rubbing her eyes.

  ‘No time for prep school repartee,’ replied Agatha, ‘Come along now.’ Agatha hustled Mary and Alfred out of the house before closing the door, shaking her head and saying, ‘Young people.’

  At this point Fish appeared, also in a dressing gown.

  ‘Ah Fish,’ said Agatha, ‘A cup of tea would be wonderful.’

  ‘Very good milady,’ replied the elderly man with as much spirit as he could muster.

  -

  Rather than stay too long in one place, as they had done the previous morning, Mary ordered Alfred to drive around a little more and they parked in a different location from yesterday, confident that Caroline would probably follow a similar route.

  Around six thirty, a figure emerged from the front door. Mary used her opera binoculars to confirm it was Caroline Hadleigh. As expected, Caroline headed towards Sloane Square. This time, however, she was carrying a small suitcase rather than a bag.

  Mary trailed behind in the car, only getting out as they neared the same café. The morning was bitterly cold but free from rain. Taking a risk, Mary followed right behind Caroline and took a seat with her back to her quarr
y. Acting on a suggestion from Betty, Mary was wearing a pair of reading glasses and a beret. As disguises went, it was just about one step removed from a false nose and moustache but there hadn’t been time for anything more elaborate.

  She overheard Caroline order tea with toast. When the waitress came over, Mary did likewise. The order arrived quickly as the café was still not very full. Mary was able to keep an eye on Caroline using the reflection from the glass front. Outside it was getting brighter. Her earlier impression of Caroline as very attractive and of a similar age to herself was confirmed.

  When Caroline finished her breakfast, she stood up and went to the counter to pay. Then she went down a small corridor to visit, what Mary remembered, was the bathroom. Mary leapt up and went to the counter to pay her bill.

  The bill paid, Mary left the café and signalled to Alfred to make ready to pick her up. A minute or two after Mary had left, Caroline Hadleigh also exited the café. Only it wasn’t the same as the one who had entered. Gone was the blonde hair and light coloured mackintosh. In its place was a dowdy, seemingly older woman with dark hair and a tweed overcoat. Mary would never have recognised the young woman were it not for one thing. The suitcase.

  By now Mary was in the car and able to observe Caroline unseen. The traffic was beginning to build however. At one point they came to a standstill. Mary watched in frustration as Caroline began to edge ever further ahead. And then they realised the reason for the hold up. Two cars had collided up ahead. Mary could have screamed. Caroline was nearly out of sight.

  -

  Melbury Road runs from Kensington High Street, along the western perimeter of Holland Park. Dozens of red brick Victorian houses and apartments lined each side of the street. Few realised, and even fewer would have welcomed, the fact that it was home to Britain’s embryonic Secret Intelligence Service, led by the shadowy figure of Mansfield Cumming, otherwise known as ‘C’.

  It was in this highly suburban environment that Aldric ‘Spunky’ Stevens plied his trade. His office overlooked Holland Park, which was a relative compensation for having to move away from the centre of London. The compensation being the opportunity to enjoy the endless procession of young ladies promenading in the park. However, those days, for the time being, were over. The weather had turned a little inclement which discouraged the daily beauty parade, and now he only had eyes, well one eye, for the attractive young secretary to ‘C’, Dawn.

  It was Dawn who led Kit up to Spunky’s office following their arrangement the previous day. After Dawn had left the two men alone, Spunky indicated to Kit not to say anything.

  ‘Wonderful girl, Dawn. Without her, I’m convinced this place would fall apart. Keeps the old man on his toes,’ said Spunky a little too loudly.

  Kit nodded in understanding, ‘Yes clearly very efficient.’

  Spunky leaned forward and stage whispered, ‘Keeps more than the old man on his toes, I can tell you.’

  Kit closed his eyes and held his palms up thereby missing a series of hand gestures from Spunky unlikely to be found in any mime artist’s repertoire, unless they were French. This made Spunky chortle even more. The two friends finally got down to business when Kit raised the subject of Leon Daniels.

  ‘I saw the Russian chap, Daniels, yesterday.’

  ‘So I gather. What brought you out there?’

  ‘I have to say, Spunky, he was in a pretty poor state,’ replied Kit, ignoring the question.

  ‘He’ll be in an even worse one when he’s dangling at the end of a rope,’ pointed out Spunky.

  ‘Yes no doubt, but this is the law of the land, whatever one may think of it. However, I’m pretty sure that the same law does not endorse torture.’

  ‘No,’ conceded Spunky, ‘But we both know it goes on. And don’t tell me you had no idea what his fate would be.’

  ‘Seeing it first hand is another thing. It’s inhuman. Torture makes us no better than the people we’re supposed to be defending the country against.

  ‘Enhanced interrogation, old boy,’ said Spunky by way of correction, ‘is necessary. Who knows what other covert cells Russia has operating in this country? We have to be able to defend ourselves, the Bolsheviks aren’t playing by Queensbury rules, y’know. They’ve killed people in our country before and they’ll do it again. And again. You may not like it, but it won’t change anytime soon.

  ‘Well, I don’t like it Spunky. It’s not…’

  ‘Cricket?’ said Spunky with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘No, definitely not cricket. Nor is it what I believe this country should stand for. That probably makes me a fool but there you have it.’

  ‘Anyway on a happier note, your unscheduled appearance may have had an impact,’ said Spunky.

  Kit looked surprised and said, ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘Have you got that old photograph of us by the lake with you?’ asked Spunky. Kit retrieved it and handed it to Spunky, who smiled nostalgically. ‘A bit sentimental of you to keep it in your wallet.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it was such a wonderful time. I looked at it often when I was in France. It kept me sane I think. To know there was another world out there that had sunshine and friends and possibilities.’

  Spunky handed it back and said, ‘Well I think it fairly convinced Daniels that Olly had hoodwinked him. He began to talk about Olly and the other chap Fechin. You were right, they did bump him off. Incompetence. Olly ordered it along with the other killings. Daniels claims not to know why, which I believe, incidentally. He’s just a foot soldier.’

  ‘And Roger?’

  ‘I think Daniels has pretty much confirmed he was duped by Roger into thinking he was working in a covert cell in Britain. He fed Roger a lot about the way Cheka were set up in a broad sense, but he had no knowledge of other cells working in the country.’

  ‘And the killings? What was Roger’s involvement in those?

  ‘He was not involved apparently. He handed over the reins to Olly who was the prime instigator of what happened.’

  Kit nodded and felt a wave of sadness engulf him. Sadness for the loss of his former commanding officer, sadness for the circumstances that led to his death, sadness for not seeing that Ratcliffe had slowly been driven mad by years of leading a double life. A life that led him to be unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy. He wondered if such a fate befell all those who spent their life undercover, not just acting but becoming the person they had to portray to the outside world. He was glad to be out of it.

  The conversation moved off the recent case. Kit had the feeling his friend was probing him, indirectly, about why he had gone to the prison. As there was no reason he could see not to admit it, he confirmed the original purpose of the visit had been to see the Phantom.

  ‘Why is the Phantom in a special prison used by our people?’ asked Kit.

  Spunky smiled and pointed out, ‘He’s the Phantom. He’d walk out of any other prison old boy. Why the interest in Hadleigh?’

  Kit told him about the evening of the theft, on the eve of the London Conference.

  ‘You were there?’ exclaimed Spunky, ‘I’m very impressed. So Jellicoe’s back on the case, then?’ asked Spunky.

  ‘Looks like it. He caught Hadleigh originally, if you remember.’

  Spunky shook his and said, ‘Had no idea. Stout man, obviously.’

  Kit smiled. This was the very highest of praise, just one step behind being a good egg. Or was it the other way around? Kit could never remember.

  ‘Yes he’s good. He has a young sergeant with him, now, who appears to be his protégé,’ added Kit.

  ‘Well the more the better, I say. Fewer criminals, means more men in prison which means more girls at a loose end, grateful for a bit of Stevens…’

  Kit put his palms up to stop Spunky in mid flow, lest his eloquence take him towards schoolboy alliteration and oblique references to his undoubted credentials for the fairer sex. This intervention managed to bring Spunky back on subject.

  ‘What
’s the latest on the conference?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Well, I’m not sitting in the room obviously, my role is more akin to eavesdropping in the corridors of power, or peace, in this case. Usual story, bit like Paris. Us, the Frenchies and the Italians all have an agenda in the Middle East which is based purely on our respective national interests, well the Italians probably don’t care, I think they’re on holiday,’ added Spunky before continuing, ‘But it’s probably not in the long term interests of the region.’

  ‘What do we want?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Well, as long as we can protect our oil interests in Mosul, we’re of a mind to leave the rest to the French and the Americans to sort out, particularly Constantinople. We’d be happy for them to do our dirty work in keeping seaways open, means easier access to India.’

  ‘What do the French want?’

  ‘What does any Frenchman want?’ This appeared to amuse Spunky immensely before he added in a more serious tone, ‘they’ve finally woken up to the potential of the region for oil. It took them long enough. Winston and the rest have been on this like a rat through cheese for a long time now.’

  ‘There were a lot of protesters outside I noticed,’ said Kit.

  Spunky nodded and said, ‘The region is a powder keg of different ethnic and religious groups. Still, better they’re all together in one place, I say.

  ‘Where are you and Jellicoe, with the case?’ asked Spunky, returning to the subject of the Phantom.

  ‘I’m no longer on it, insofar as I was ever a part of it. It’s a police matter,’ said Kit, a little more ruefully than he would have liked.

  Spunky smiled sympathetically, ‘Want me to pull a few strings, bloodhound?’

  ‘No, I want to spend the time with Mary, not chasing after criminals. After what she’s been through, I think we need to be together.’

  -

  On this matter Mary and Kit were not quite as one. The extraordinary activity of Caroline Hadleigh in the morning had duly been reported to the other two members of the investigative team.

  Mary had related how her tracking of Caroline had nearly gone awry once more. Having almost lost her quarry once more, Mary had been forced to demonstrate why she had been the sprint champion at her school for six years, literally, on the trot , with a mad dash that had, by turns, nearly knocked an old gentleman into the road, resulted in a near collision with a man on a bicycle and a possible world record in the sixty yard dash.