Lammas Night (20 page)

C
HAPTER
8

Two days later, as William, Duke of Clarence stepped onto the dock at RAF Calshot, returning the duty officer's salute, he wondered whether he really knew what he was doing. Ahead, Griffin and a pair of airmen were loading their few pieces of luggage into the motor launch that was to take them to their flying boat, but William's mind was already in Plymouth—though the city in his imagination bore little resemblance to the one he was about to visit.

He had never been to Plymouth, though he had spent much of the past two weeks engaged in careful research on the city and its most famous son. Unfortunately, he had found little to reassure him about the aspect of the place that was most on his mind. The supernatural game into which he had invited himself so casually did not seem to have any written rules—or if it did, he had not found them. All he had really managed to do was to confuse and frighten himself quite thoroughly.

He wondered what the day—and night—would bring. As he climbed aboard the launch and took a seat in the stern beside his aide, glancing up at his personal standard snapping in the breeze, he also wondered what he might unwittingly have gotten his staff into. Gray had not said it in so many words, but it was clear to William that the two would have to be put out of commission at least for the evening. He hoped he would be given some indication as to how Gray wanted him to handle that, though he was prepared to deal with the situation himself if no instructions came.

At least the day was fine for flying: a little foggy but bright. The fog would burn off before another hour passed—perhaps even by the time they were airborne. As the motor launch headed out toward the moored flying boat, hull spanking smartly against a light chop, William breathed the sea air deeply and told himself to stop worrying.

The day itself was quite predictable. Nothing mysterious or mystical about that at all. There would be the usual renderings of royal and military honors by innumerable smartly turned out naval officers and enlisted men, with uncountable ships to survey approvingly, salutes to return, hands to shake, and the obligatory little speeches all along the way that the British expected of their royalty. He had done it so often before, he was certain he could do it in his sleep—boring, especially in light of the night to come, but at least it would help keep his mind occupied.

Nor was his transportation even unusual. He had flown in Sunderlands many times before, even from this very base, and had often piloted them himself. The huge flying boat they were approaching floated ponderously on the water before them like some green-dappled aquatic bird, sleek and familiar. Nothing new here, either.

But as they came under the port wing toward the bow, he was astonished to see a familiar face waiting in the doorway to greet him: Richard Graham, Gray's son. Abruptly, a new piece clicked into place in the puzzle, this one oddly reassuring. He wondered why he had never made the connection before, at least in the past few weeks. Was it possible that Richard was one of the others Gray had to consult before consenting to William's presence? Would Richard perhaps be present there tonight?

“Good morning, Mr. Graham,” he called, rising to return Richard's brisk salute as a seaman heaved a line up to the rigger in the flying boat's bow. “Gray didn't mention you'd been given your own boat now.”

Richard had been on several air crews that had flown for the prince before, and he grinned amiably as the launch was drawn closer and the line made fast.

“I received my own command about four months ago, sir. We're honored to have you flying with us today. Come up and meet the rest of our crew.”

Richard offered him a hand as he scrambled aboard, both of them ducking to ease back through the doorway. Beyond young Graham were two more air-crew officers and a second flight lieutenant with red hair whose name escaped William for the moment but who looked very familiar. The rest of the crew were sergeants of various trades, none of them past their mid twenties as far as he could see. He felt almost old as he shook hands all around. He would be thirty-five in exactly a week.

“You're related to Brigadier Sir Wesley Ellis, aren't you?” he recalled when Geoffrey had been introduced, suddenly making a connection with Dover and Gray's call.

“Yes, sir, his grandson. It's kind of you to remember,” Geoffrey answered with a smile that seemed to confirm William's suspicions. “Welcome aboard.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

For the next few minutes, William merely tried to stay out of the way of Wells, Griffin, and the rest of the crew while they stowed the luggage and secured the boat for flight, wondering exactly how Richard and Geoffrey fit into the picture. One of the sergeants showed him and his staff to seats in the wardroom for takeoff, but as soon as they were airborne, he was invited up to the flight deck, where, to his pleasant surprise, Geoffrey vacated the second pilot's chair for him and relieved the navigator. Below them, the docks of Southampton were receding under their right wing, Southampton Water gleaming in the morning sun as they headed toward the Solent. The headphones in the leather flying helmet William pulled on helped muffle the growl of the four Bristol Pegasus engines.

“Jonesie, stand by to send the ‘friendly' signal and fire the colors of the day as we come up on Pompey,” Richard was saying as William plugged into the intercom and got himself settled. “With luck, sir, they'll remember we're due to fly over, and they won't open fire,” Richard continued aside to the prince as he scanned the horizon warily. “It's said the Portsmouth barrage puts up such thick flak, one can walk on it.”

William nodded knowingly, confident that no real danger threatened if Gray had arranged things.

“I'll trust that our chaps know we're up here,” he said. “They do have some important targets to protect, however.”

“You'll get no argument on
that
, sir,” Richard conceded, glancing at the prince with a droll smile. “May I assume that someone briefed you on what happened here on Wednesday?”

“I have a general idea. Actually, I was more interested in Plymouth, since that's where we're headed, but wasn't there something about one of the French submarines putting up a fight here in Portsmouth?”

Richard nodded as he adjusted a throttle. “More of a skirmish, actually, sir. It was the
Surcouf
, one of their larger subs. Apparently, her crew weren't certain they wanted to surrender to our chaps. Both sides lost a man before it was over.”

William shook his head and grimaced as Richard continued.

“Other than that, the French crews came ashore quite willingly,” Richard said. “A lot of them have even signed on to fight under Admiralty orders for the duration. Look up ahead, sir. There's the harbor.”

As Richard dipped the right wing and made a wide turn out over the harbor basin, William braced himself and peered down. They were over the Gosport peninsula now, approaching from north and west of the naval base. Just ahead and to their right, the anchorage glittered like a sheet of speckled glass. While they circled above the British fleet, Richard pointed out several of the captured French destroyers and light cruisers as well as scores of smaller minesweeping and antisubmarine craft and a few submarines, the
Surcouf
among them. The seizure of the French fleet had been to no one's liking, but William was well aware of the danger, had the ships fallen into German hands.

He was silent as they left Portsmouth behind and headed west along the Solent, his thoughts gradually returning to Plymouth, his earlier apprehensions, and curiosity about Richard's part in all of this. Richard cast several glances in the prince's direction that might have spoken apprehensions of his own, but before William could decide how to sound him out, the boat's rigger poked his head through the hatch between them to inquire about tea preferences. As soon as the tea was distributed and the hatch closed, Richard reached into a pocket of his Irvin jacket and pulled out a small yellow envelope, flashing a warning with his eyes as he passed it across to William.

Administer 2100–2130

Will collect you 2200

Gray's instructions scrawled on the outside of the envelope were succinct, the yellow capsules inside familiar. As William pocketed the envelope and glanced at Richard, the young pilot reached pointedly to the volume control of the intercom and pretended to adjust it. William nodded and sat back, silent.

At least the intended disposition of Wells and Griffin for the night was no longer a question. William longed to pump Richard for further details, but anything said over the intercom would be heard by the rest of the crew, and to try to shout above the rumble of the engines, while possible, was to risk that the flight-deck crew might overhear. While William brooded on this frustration and sipped at his tea, acutely aware of the capsules in his pocket, Richard made a thorough check of his instruments and then glanced casually at the prince.

“Care to take over for a while, sir?” he asked, his expectant smile very reminiscent of his father.

“I was beginning to think you'd never ask,” William replied, grinning as he settled his feet into position and took the controls.

For the next half hour, under Richard's relaxed supervision, William lost himself in flying the Sunderland, the Portland Naval Base and Lyme Bay gradually slipping under their wings. They made landfall again over Start Point, continuing westward along the coast until Plymouth Breakwater and Sound came into sight. Richard took back control for the landing, but he let the prince stay in the second pilot's chair instead of returning below. Soon the flying boat set down smoothly in the roads at Plymouth.

The flying had taken William's mind off other matters for a while, but as they taxied the mile or so to RAF Mountbatten, east of the sound, wallowing a little in a choppy sea, his earlier apprehensions came flooding back. He thought about the envelope in his pocket and where Richard and Geoffrey fit into all of this—and the rest of the crew, who seemed not to be in on things, but one could never tell.

Was Richard a witch, or whatever Gray was, like father like son? And if Geoffrey was, what about the brigadier? Who else might be involved whose connection had not even crossed his mind?

Fortunately, he was not given over long to think about it, for as they approached the “trots” where their boat was to moor, he could see the admiral's barge heading out to meet them, white ensign fluttering at the stern. It was time to don his princely demeanor.

With a sigh, he went below to let Griffin tidy his uniform and get him ready to disembark.

Graham arrived at the prince's quarters that night on schedule, he and Denton both in heavy, knee-length duffle coats with hoods drawn up, for the weather had turned filthy with the dusk. In the obscuring rain, they slipped easily from car park to entrance, passing the Royal Marines on duty without challenge, for these particular men had worked for Graham before. It was precisely ten when Denton knocked at William's door.

William himself admitted them, as Graham had hoped he would. The prince's set expression confirmed the events of the past half hour. As Graham and Denton followed him into the sitting room, they were met with the unaccustomed sight of Griffin the valet sprawled asleep in an easy chair by the electric fire, feet propped up and an empty glass on the side table at his elbow. Wells was nowhere to be seen.

“Where's Wells?” Graham asked in a low voice.

“Asleep, through there.” William's gesture faltered just a little as Graham stripped off his coat to reveal a shoulder holster nestled in his armpit and a bulky lump of folded fabric around his waist. “Incidentally, I gave them each a tot of whiskey with their tea—remembered it was compatible with your capsules. Lord Selwyn gave me a vintage bottle aboard his ship this afternoon when the weather started to change. I don't suppose you know anything about that? It's just occurred to me that he's Michael's father.”

As Graham removed and unfolded the waist bundle, it became a black polo sweater and dark fatigue trousers such as he himself wore. He had suspected that William would make the connection about Selwyn, but he was not going to rise to the bait and confirm it. The prince would see for himself soon enough. Shaking his head to forestall further questions, he held a finger to his lips and handed the clothing to the prince.

“Put these on and keep your voice down until we're secure,” he whispered, already moving back to the chair where Griffin slept.

Denton had pushed back the man's left sleeve and was tying the arm above the elbow with a length of rubber tubing. A small bottle of alcohol and a tuft of cotton lay on the table beside the empty glass. As William peered over his shoulder, Graham opened a case from his pocket and took out a loaded syringe.

“What are you doing?” William whispered.

“Just get changed. I don't want anybody waking up while we're gone. What do you make him, Denny, about thirteen stone?”

Denton nodded, swabbing the man's wrist where he had pushed back a chrome wrist watch. “Close enough, sir. Let's stick him right here, where the edge of the tattoo runs over the vein. If he notices anything tomorrow, he'll think his watch band pinched him.”

As expected, William moved off to dress as Graham bent to the job at hand. The prince had never allowed squeamishness to interfere with his work, but Graham knew he had had enough of needles as a sickly child to last him a lifetime. When Graham and Denton had finished with Griffin, they went into the next room and repeated the process with Wells. The aide stirred a little as they tied his arm, and looked like he might wake when the cold swab touched his skin; but once the drug was in him, they could see him sink visibly into a deeper sleep.

After that, Graham helped carry the unconscious Griffin to the other bed in the room, where Denton could watch both men at once. When he returned to the sitting room, the prince was buckling his belt, the handsome face very sober above the black polo sweater.