A Thief in the Night (19 page)

They nodded.

‘Therefore, the question arises: what should be done?'

Eddie looked up to see Williamson doing some very energetic beard-stroking. ‘Well, he's going to be at the Grand at seven, and we'll have an army waiting for him Guv!'

‘Or we hold my retirement somewhere else entirely, and still have an army at the Grand. Of course, such has been the vigour of our search that the chances are he knows we're after him and he's left for Siberia,' Williamson muttered. ‘I shall inform my staff to switch to the Hotel Metropole on Northumberland Avenue … they do the finest mutton cutlets in London. Eddie, in the event that our man is of low brain capacity and still insists on turning up with a pistol at the Grand, we'll have him. Maitland, would you issue a sketch of Pelriak across the stations and to all of Eddie's men? The Grand is huge. He must know that the event would be in the great central dining hall – broad enough to house a regiment for a meal! You'll have to take the whole of E Division to surround the hall.'

‘Me?' said Eddie, surprised. ‘I'm to miss your last dinner, Guv?'

‘Last dinner? You seem to think I am bound to leave this vale of tears permanently!'

‘Dolly, there is one point,' said Maitland. ‘Does Pelriak know what you look like? Would he have seen a picture of you?'

‘Excellent question, Maitland. To my knowledge there has been no newspaper picture of me for the last five years. I never talk to those scribblers from Fleet Street. They write nothing but dirt.'

‘Then in that case, there
will
be a man receiving a retirement gift and presentation tonight at the Grand – myself!' declared Eddie, rapping the table with a sense of triumph. ‘We'll trap the rat.'

Everything was in place at both hotels that night. At the Metropole, Williamson gathered with dozens of his old partners, sergeants, office workers and retired constables. The dinner was prepared for sixty guests, and at nine thirty, awash with his favourite red wine, Adolphus spoke, mixing reminiscences with some pleasantries, becoming increasingly the man they knew as ‘Dolly' rather than the Chief Constable.

‘We live in changing times … and I leave the force in the good hands of Commissioner Monro … James … stand up and take a bow. My friends, there are all kinds of new ideas and new people at the Yard, but I have to speak as a beat bobby, a war-horse of these London streets, and I know that policing is, at heart, about working to fashion good relations with the public,' he paused for the applause and shouts of agreement.

In the massive dining hall of the magnificent Grand Hotel on Trafalgar Square, tables had been set up beneath the massive ornate pillars reaching to the glass ceiling, and the attendants sitting at the tables, pretending to dine, were all armed police. As they chattered their colleagues were in the shadows, firearms at the ready. If the assassin was coming, they would be ready.

‘Changing times, yes, but exciting times too,' said the Chief Constable, now in full flow. ‘I have this sensation of leaving at exactly the time when matters are hurtling towards a distinctly international arena. My old friends, be ready to take on threats from across the oceans, that's what I feel in my bones … and I know you all always trusted that very unscientific aspect of my sleuthing … but I thank you all for coming, and for giving me this wonderful and very heavy golden cup, with such a thoughtful inscription: “To the Chief, Adolphus Williamson” – only my wife calls me that, and that's when I'm in trouble!' Dolly paused to allow some laughter at that. The audience at the Metropole was having a memorable time.

The Grand Hotel had a huge, sweeping staircase, but clearly that was not the route that Pelriak would take. Eddie had surveyed the place, and found two other pathways through the building which would lead to the dining hall. ‘He will almost certainly come this way … through the service area where the trolleys come out,' Eddie instructed his three sergeants, as they made ready for their visitor.

It was Harry Lacey who had the revelation. He was reading the latest edition of
Punch
at the Septimus Club and was feeling quite relaxed, in spite of his Rossiter restraint corset, with its steel band and whalebone supports. The little half-column he had alighted on was headed, ‘Parfitt's Political Refusals' and it was an account of his fondness for Socialist philosophy in his youth, and his love of church ritual. One phrase struck him: ‘The possible next Foreign Secretary, we learn, is a quiet Russophile, and last night he told the assembled students at the Guildhall that our political structures must change or die.'

It was at first a mere inkling, a foreboding, like the shadow of a cloud across a lawn on a sunny day. But then it clarified, and he sprang up, launching the magazine into space, and cried out, ‘Sir David Parfitt!'

The aged Earl of Clannmore grumbled in disapproval at having his snooze disturbed at this outburst, but Harry was already out of the club like a greyhound and calling for a cab.

In the Metropole Williamson's speech was complete and the guests were gradually dispersing, with firm handshakes and promises to stay in touch. The Chief was now left with just one old friend, James Munro. He was growing a little weary of the man's anecdotes, but remained patient, as they had been new bobbies on the beat together, decades ago.

‘Yes, James, we had a lot to learn then, old man. You've come a long way, and, of course, it's your turn next to stand up here and give a farewell speech!'

No one recognised Sir David Parfitt as he entered the Metropole, as he was wrapped in a grey double-breasted wool frockcoat, the collar up and covering the lower half of his face. He walked through the throng of police officers, on their way to catch trains, cabs, or simply walk home through the city streets. There was heavy rain outside now, and all were swathed in coats and hats, scarves and gloves. No one noticed the man in the grey frockcoat, tightly clutching a knife in one of the deep pockets.

Dolly was strolling out of the dining room, still chatting with his sergeant, when the man approached and shouted, ‘Chief Williamson!' Then, as the knife blade glinted in the air, another voice cried out, ‘Sir David … it's you!'

Parfitt turned and came face-to-face with Harry Lacey. ‘It's you … I know it's you … say farewell to life!' He swung around and plunged the knife into Harry's midriff before the professor could pull out the pistol he always carried in his inside pocket. Harry clutched his stomach, before slumping to the marble floor.

As Parfitt spun back towards the Chief Constable, Williamson struck him on the temple with his newly acquired golden presentation cup.

As Parfitt fell to the floor, unconscious, Harry struggled to his feet.

‘By God, man … you're all right!' exclaimed Dolly.

‘Yes … I have the Rossiter Manform Retainer to thank for that … the damned blade struck the steel band!'

The policemen had no idea what the professor was talking about.

‘I expect Dmitri Pelriak is on the way to some bug-infested den out towards Essex, feeling like a hunted fox, but here's the DP who was their killer.'

‘Whose killer?' asked Dolly, perplexed. ‘This is Sir David Parfitt.'

‘I think you'll find he led a double life, Sir. He was a link in the chain of The Brothers of Rebirth.'

‘Well I'm amazed that they would want to top me, a man of no importance now!' Dolly managed to chuckle at his own words.

‘Ah, it was a gesture … an ignoble gesture, Sir!' said Harry, before leaving to find Eddie and share a well-earned drink with the Detective Inspector.

London, the great hub of the Empire, was at its zenith in 1890, and the men who oiled the wheels of the great machine that was Britain earned their respect through hard work, dedicated study and focused concentration on how they might rise. To rise in society was the aim: to rise through merit was arguably a much rarer phenomenon than stepping up the hierarchy by questionable means. Yet there was nothing questionable about Sir John Tardow. At the opening of that momentous decade, the Forth Bridge may have been a new wonder of the world, but it was not the only topic of conversation at dinner and concert intervals. For the first six months of the year the name on everyone’s lips was Tardow. The future of the country was safe in the hands of men such as he, said
The Times
, so it was to be a valued estimation.