Mask of the Verdoy (39 page)

‘I’m not a policeman,’ said Harley, unable to suppress his grin.

‘No, no … of course not. Oh dear! How embarrassing, George!’

She turned and on spotting his grin succumbed to a burst of nervous laughter.

‘Shush!’ said Harley, placing a finger to his lips. ‘You’re supposed to be in shock.’

‘Oh … but I am—believe me!’

She retrieved her drink and came to sit opposite him again.

‘Albert’s right, unfortunately,’ said Harley. ‘I can’t stay long. And I do need to ask you a few more questions.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Well, firstly, how would you describe your relationship with Giles Pembroke.’

‘Giles?’ she took a sip of whisky, and thought for a moment. ‘Well, he’s an old family friend. Rupert and I grew up with him. For a time the three of us were quite inseparable. You see his father was a very good friend of our father’s, and as the local vicar in Grubberton used to take the services at our chapel on the estate. Giles spent an awful lot of his childhood at Chantry Hall with us.’

‘What kind of man is he, would you say?’

‘Well, let’s see. He’s a little introverted—gets a little flustered around crowds.’

‘Not a great trait in his line of work, surely?’

‘Oh, I think Giles only went into the church because he didn’t really know what else to do. I don’t mean to do him a disservice, I’m sure his faith is genuine, only … well, let’s just say that he’s not exactly a people person.’

‘At which church is he based?’

‘He isn’t. He takes the odd service at Chantry Hall from time to time—at Easter and Christmas, that kind of thing … but apart from helping out at the welfare drop-in he mostly keeps himself busy with his studies—like his father, Giles is a keen historian.’

‘Really? Does he have a particular speciality?’

‘Medieval England—he’s quite an authority, apparently.’

‘Is that so?’

Harley began to sense that he might be finally nearing a break in the case.

‘Tell me, do you know where Giles is at the moment, Effie? The bishop’s office said he might be at a seminar in Wells.’

‘I doubt that very much, that doesn’t sound much like Giles to me. I’m assuming you’ve tried his London address? Well then, when he’s not up in town he’s usually to be found down on the estate.’

‘Chantry Hall?’

‘Yes, my uncle lets a small cottage to him.’

‘Are Giles and your uncle close?’

‘Not particularly—but as I said, we all regard Giles as part of the family.’

‘Medieval History, eh? Interesting.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve always found it a little dry, actually. Maybe it’s a boy thing?’

‘Maybe it is,’ said Harley, smiling. ‘Do you think you’ll be hearing from him soon?’

‘Giles? Oh, I expect so. He’s never away for very long.’

‘Violet thinks he might have a little crush on you, you know.’

‘Does she now? Well I’m not sure I approve of Violet gossiping about such things. I shall be having a word with that young lady tomorrow.’

‘Come on, cut her some slack. It’s my fault—I was pressurizing her for information. I don’t want to get the girl in trouble.’

‘Well, if it’s of any significance at all, I believe Giles did used to have a little thing for me … but that was years ago now, when we were much younger. I can’t begin to imagine how Violet would know about that.’

‘Maybe he’s still carrying a torch for you? Only, you can’t see it.’

‘Oh, it’s possible, I suppose … But where is this leading to, George? You can’t possibly be suggesting that Giles had anything to do with the dynamite, can you?’

‘I’m just trying to build a picture, getting to know what we’ve got to work with.’

‘Well, surely the greeting card is significant—after all, it was addressed to “Daubeney’s Brat”—reference to my uncle, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Or your father.’

‘My father? My father’s dead, George.’

‘I know, but you’re still his daughter, aren’t you? If they were after your uncle’s daughter they would have gone for Lady Augusta, wouldn’t they?’

Euphemia gave a little laugh.

‘I would imagine that a stick of dynamite would be water off a duck’s back to Gussy. It’s the kind of thing she’d make everyone bring along to one of her parties, as a dare.’

‘Really?’

‘No, of course not—I’m being facetious … I simply mean that such a threat might have less impact if sent to my cousin. She’s a formidable character—takes after her father.’

‘Yes, I know—Pearson and I have had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. I think Albert’s still recovering.’

‘Now then,’ she said teasingly, ‘if you’re going to be rude about my relatives I shall have to draw this interview to a close, Mr. Harley.’

The private detective looked at his watch and rubbed his chin.

‘I hate to say it, but I’m gonna have to call it a day soon anyway; otherwise I’ll have to deal with the wrath of General Sir Frederick Swales.’

‘General Swales … Yes, an extremely useful contact, I would imagine—in your particular line of work.’

‘FW? Yeah, well—we go back a long way.’

‘Back to the Essex thirteenth battalion’s elite trench-raiding squad, I believe. Not for the faint-hearted I’d imagine, that kind of thing … And then there’s that DSM of course. You’re obviously a man of character, George Harley.’

‘Blimey! Somebody has been doing their homework.’

‘Why, George—I do believe you’re blushing! How touching.’

‘Right, that’s quite enough about George Harley … I haven’t got much time left. One more question: have you ever heard your uncle or your cousin Freddie mention someone called Ludovico Girardi?’

‘Girardi? No, no I can’t say that I have, I’m afraid. Italian? Is he connected to these anarchist bombings?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, most of these extreme political ideas seem to originate in mainland Europe, wouldn’t you say? Marx, Mussolini, this chap Hitler we keep reading about—these Europeans do seem to have rather a flair for that kind of thing, wouldn’t you say?’

Harley gave a short laugh.

‘Well, you might be right there, Effie.’

Euphemia got up and walked over to the drinks cabinet.

‘Would you like another?’

‘No, really—I’d better be going.’

She turned now with the whisky decanter in her hand.

‘Would you like to know my theory on who’s responsible for this dynamite prank … or attempted murder … or whatever it turns out to be?’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, for what it’s worth, I believe that the “Daubeney” on that greetings card
was
referring to my uncle. Has anybody considered his recent speeches in the Upper House on Irish protectionism and this new Fianna Fáil government?’

‘You think it’s the Fenians?’

‘Is that so hard to believe?’

Euphemia poured herself a generous measure of scotch and went to sit back down in her armchair.

‘You probably think I should be demurely sipping a sherry,’ she said, noticing Harley eyeing her glass. ‘But I’m afraid I rather need this at the moment.’

‘Not at all—I admire a woman who can hold her drink.’

She lit herself another cigarette.

‘And then of course there’s the whole Indian problem … My uncle was very outspoken about Gandhi’s release from prison—he felt we should have made more of an example of him. As Viceroy he took rather a firm stance, you understand. There are bound to be elements amongst the Indian self-rule fanatics who regard him as a legitimate target.’

‘Your mystery whistler?’

She shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on in the minds of these people; anarchists, terrorists … of course, it might just be some lone maniac.’

Harley now stood up and grabbed his hat from the table.

‘Right, well, you’ve given me plenty to think on.’

‘I’m sure I have,’ said Euphemia, giving him a provocative smile. ‘I hope you’re not late for your appointment with the General. Send him my regards, by the way.’

‘You know FW?’

‘Not really—we’ve met once or twice at social functions. I was billeted with his niece for a while during the war, in the VAD.’

‘I see … Well then, I’ll be saying goodbye.’

Harley waited awkwardly for a moment, not sure whether Euphemia was about to stand or not. But she remained seated, crossed her rather fine legs and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, her eyes beginning to show the effect of the whisky.

‘Goodbye, George Harley.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As the door opened to admit the new recruit the clusters of church candles illuminating the vaulted cellar guttered a little, spilling more of their wax into the solidifying puddles below the wrought iron stands. From two large bronze censers there wafted the perfumed smoke of incense, folding lazily in thick ribbons above the heads of the guests seated around the large Jacobean oak table. These guests—attired in formal evening wear—now ceased their small talk and turned their grimacing Green Man faces to study the newcomer.

The individual administering at the head of the table wore an embroidered robe over his dinner jacket, adorned with the same vibrant green leaves that engulfed the haunted features of his Verdoy mask. This robed figure now held his hands up to bring silence to the dimly lit room.

‘So, brother neophyte—hear me now! As the taint of corruption creeps in the veins of this once vital nation it is time that we reflect on what we have sown by examining what we reap. I ask you: are you ready with your oath?’

‘I am.’

‘Very well, let all present hear thy words!’

***

There had been a brisk walk for the raiding party from the field where they had decided to park the vehicles—far enough away from the manor house so as not to arouse suspicion—and by the time they had reached the perimeter wall of the estate the group of Special Branch and SIS officers were warmed up and ready for action, their breath gathering in small clouds in the damp air.

Colonel Chesterton—the commanding officer in charge of the operation—pushed the flop of sandy hair from his eyes and gestured for the group to gather in a little closer.

‘Right men,’ he said,
sotto voce
, ‘as you’ll know from the briefing, there are four possible points of entry. Dickie—you and Straker
take your crews and cover the three rear entry points … Harley and Pearson, I’d like you to team up with Straker’s crew, if you would … Snip—you’re with me; we’ll take our boys and cover the main door at the front … We go in at twenty-one forty-five precisely; swift and silent … Once inside, Dickie—ground floor. Straker you cover the cellar areas—don’t forget your torches. Snip, we’ll concentrate on the upper floors. Once we’re in we’ll need two men on each entry point—inside and out. Firearms, if you have them, should be drawn on entry and used judiciously. Remember—we need them detained and questioned … not cold and on a slab. Right chaps, synchronize your watches … I have twenty-one thirty five … in five, four, three, two,
one!
’

The men split into three groups and set off stealthily across the lawn, keeping low and avoiding the crunch of the gravel on the sweeping drive.

***

In the hushed silence of the cellar the Verdoy neophyte now held a hand to his breast and turned to address his audience:

‘I, being of sound mind and body, and having resolved on this day to further devote myself to the glorious work of restoring this once great nation, do, of my own free will, hereby and hereon, most solemnly promise and swear …’

He paused to lay a hand on the upturned golden chalice placed before him.

‘… to strive to restore the King to his rightful position as the mirror of his people’s virtues, as their protector from private interests, and as their supreme executor of Government.’

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, Giles. 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.’