Mask of the Verdoy (46 page)

He now came to the description of the symptoms of the disease, and as he read on his heart began to quicken with anticipation.

“The attacks began with intense pain in the extremities, causing the victims to writhe and scream. They experienced intense itching followed by the onslaught of a fire that seemed to burn between the flesh and the bones, such was the
ignis sacer
(sacred fire), or
ignis S. Antonii
(St Anthony’s fire) … sloughing of the extremities … gangrene … convulsions … mimicking the sounds of a dog … snarling, barking and at the last howling like a hound.”

‘Christ! Itching, convulsions, barking like a dog—that’s Miss Perkins. Girardi must have used some kind of ergot extract.’

He continued on. ‘Here we go—
the Rye Wolf!
’

“… some historians believe that the Roggenwolf (‘rye-wolf’) of German folklore—a lycanthropic evil spirit who hides amongst the fields of rye, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting peasant and strangle him to death—is linked to the rural term Wolfszahn (“Wolf-tooth”), a description of the distorted appearance given to the rye grain by an infestation of the ergot fungus. One of the recorded symptoms of ergot poisoning is the contraction of “wry-neck”, and fatal victims of the disease often appear to be dying through strangulation.

In his celebrated study of magic and religion,
The Golden Bough,
J. G. Frazer recounts that in European peasantry it was common for the wave-like motion of the wind gusting through the corn to be explained as “the Rye-wolf is rushing through the corn”, and children were warned not to go wandering alone into the corn-fields for “the Rye-wolf will carry you off”.’

There is strong evidence to suggest that the psychoactive properties of
Claviceps purpurea
were employed as an entheogen in various religious ceremonies of antiquity; from the drinking of the kykeon in the Eleusinian Mysteries of Ancient Greece, to the consummation of the sacred barley mead in the sacrificial ceremonies of the Ancient Britons … furthermore, the most commonly accepted interpretation of the hero’s name from the Old English epic poem, Beowulf, is “Barley-wolf”; some believe that this alludes to use of a trance-inducing ergot-based drink in the religions of our ancient ancestors.”

Harley closed the book on his lap.

‘Ancient Briton, mystic ceremonies—this has got the sodding Verdoy written all over it. And with Girardi using some kind of powdered ergot extract … so then, Pembroke has got to be the Rye Wolf, right?’

He got up and walked over to the blackboards.

‘So why is the Rye Wolf “K” on the list; a middle name, maybe? After all, there’s the Austin 7 seen leaving Effie’s apartment after the delivery of the dynamite … and he was there at Spitalfields, leaving the scene of the crime just before the explosion. He’s gotta be our boy.’

Harley walked back to the bureau and picked up the Eugenics Society pamphlet. He studied the Green Man masks on the front cover.

‘Then we’ve got these bastards, ready to perform their animal husbandry on the nation to breed out the elements they don’t like—which, as well as the mentally feeble and the disabled, will no doubt include unmarried mothers, socialists, anyone with a criminal record, those of a lower IQ than the average Eton scholar, and basically anyone else who doesn’t comply to their Fascist ideal of the perfect British subject.’

He turned the page and was presented with a list of guest speakers that had featured at the meeting that Cynthia had attended.

‘Shit!’ he said, dropping the pamphlet. ‘
Shit!
’

Harley began to pace the room frantically, his mind racing with the information that he’d just taken in.

He walked back to the bureau and checked the list of names, just to make sure—but there could be no doubt about it.

Now, as he closed the pamphlet, he began to feel a wave of nausea … the cluster of Green Man masks on the cover seemed to turn and taunt him, jangling on the leafy boughs as they opened their mouths to silently laugh.

The room began to spin as he groped for the small jade bottle containing the antidote. He chewed on one of the dried flower heads, working his jaw frantically to fill his mouth with the bitter purple juice. He swallowed the mush and slumped back into the chair.

Within a minute or two Harley was suitably recovered to think coherently enough to plan his next move. He checked his watch, and then hurried downstairs, grabbing his hat and coat before rushing out and jogging the few hundred yards around the corner to the public telephone box in Warren Street.

He noticed his hand was shaking as he pushed the coin into the slot.
Come on, George!
He thought.
Pull yourself together!

‘DC Pearson, please,’ he said, as the call was answered at the other end. ‘Tell him it’s Mack calling.’

It was then that he remembered Vi’s news—Quigg was dead, shot in the head by Charlie Highstead; so maybe there was no need for the subterfuge anymore. Then again, he couldn’t take any chances; after
all, he was sure that Quigg had been working for the Verdoy—and half the British establishment to boot.

‘Albert? Yeah, it’s George. Listen, I think I’m on to something, but I’ve got to make sure. I need to find the vicar, Pembroke. You were gonna check to see if he’d gone back done to Chantry Hall … Well—go and get it! I need to know right now!’

Whilst he waited for Pearson to consult his notes Harley felt in his pocket for his smokes, cursing when he realized that he’d left them back in the library. He rubbed the condensation from one of the small panes of glass and watched the city coming to life: the office workers streaming in from the underground and the buses, the street traders on their way to set up their pitches for the day, people buying papers and frequenting the cafés for their breakfast—all of them going about their regular business, oblivious to the fact that in a few hours the machinations of a handful of powerful individuals might turn British life on its head. He shivered and buttoned his coat up.

‘Albert? Yeah … yeah, I know where it is—I looked it up the other day. And you’re sure he’s gone back down there? … Well, I know, but I’ll have to take that chance … No, no—you stay here. FW is going to need all the help he can get. It’s the fifteenth, remember—if we’re right about this Correction thing, this is the day it all kicks off. As soon as I hang up I want you to check in with FW, see whether he’s had any success with getting the PM to cancel his official engagements for the day. Then I want you to get hold of Solly Rosen, CID should have a file on him—a thick one, probably. All the addresses you might find him at should be in there. Tell Sol to be on standby, that George says we need a favour. I’m sure Fellows has it covered but Solly’s unbeatable in a tight spot … yeah, Quigg … I heard—Charlie Highstead, right? See what you can find out about it, won’t yer? Listen—I’d better be going. Hopefully I’ll be back some time this afternoon. Oh, and make sure that FW has someone manning that phone number at all times—with a bit of luck I’ll be calling later with a few answers. And Albert? Make sure you’re packing that shooter of yours—I’ve got a funny feeling you’ll be needing it before the day’s out.’

Back home at Bell Street Harley returned to the reference section in the library and pulled out an Ordinance Survey map of Somerset, spreading it out on the floor and ringing the village of Grubberton and the estate of Chantry Hall with a red pencil. He calculated the distance and decided that if he took his trusty Norton CS1 and sidecar he could be there by noon; which left him just enough time to make a few necessary preparations.

Following a quick sluice and a change of clothes he prepared himself an emergency dose of the purple flower antidote and decanted
it into a hip-flask. He used the remainder of the boiled water to make a thermos of sweet tea, then dished out some breakfast for Moloch. Moving back upstairs he secured the jade bottles back in their hiding place, grabbed the OS map and his bike gear, and searched out his brass knuckles.

He stood weighing the knuckleduster thoughtfully; then moved up to his bedroom and fished about under the bed for an old biscuit tin containing a collection of souvenirs from the war. He prized off the lid and uncovered the largest of the mementoes from its German Imperial war flag wrapping—a Luger P08 semi-automatic pistol. He gave the firearm a quick once-over and then fitted the magazine.

There’s gotta be an easier way to make a living!
he thought, before gathering everything together and heading off towards the lock-up where he kept Mabel.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Having made such an early start the journey into the West End from the South London suburbs had taken no time at all, and it was still a few minutes before eight-o’clock as Valentine Medini turned his new Hillman 14 into Great Marlborough Street.

He pulled up sharply at a pedestrian crossing just outside of Liberty’s to allow a uniformed bobby to cross the road. As he did so he glanced nervously across at his fellow traveller in the passenger seat, but Ludovico Girardi held his charming smile, even acknowledging the policeman with a calm nod. Now Medini risked a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, which reflected a scene that made his heart flutter: his wife Gladys squashed up against the vast bulk of the henchman Billy Boyd, whose billycock hat sat on his lap—covering a loaded revolver.

‘Please, Signor Chadwick,’ said Girardi, without taking his eye off the policeman. ‘We are almost at our destination. We do not want any of your tricks now. After all, it would be a shame to see your wife’s beautiful fur coat stained with her husband’s blood.’

Boyd leant forward and thrust the huge slab of his face into the gap between the seats.

‘Not to mention your poor aged Ma, all trussed up in that shed. I mean—if little sonny-boy ain’t around any more, who’ll be there to untie her? Draw her a nice hot bath? Get her bed all toasty with the warming pan? It gets awfully cold at this time of year—and what with the damp and the rats … Well, I don’t think she’d last through the night, do you?
Now shift it!
Park up there on the left, just after that totter’s cart.’

Medini put the car into gear and moved on through the pedestrian crossing, pulling over after a short distance to park outside the small alleyway leading to the stage door of the London Palladium.

‘Very good!’ said Girardi, rubbing his hands. ‘So, now we get out of the motor car—slowly and calmly—and we make our way—slowly and calmly—into the theatre. This is the most natural thing, yes? The great Valentine Medini and his charming assistant arriving to prepare for their performance.’

‘But it’s too early, I tell you! I’d never usually arrive so far ahead of the—’

The Italian immediately dropped his smile.

‘Maybe you were right, Billy—maybe you should take the young lady for a little drive. Just the two of you—
romantico
; while I explain a few things to Signor Chadwick here.’

‘Yeah, then after we’ve ’ad our bit of fun I could drive Madame back home and she could watch me drown the mother-in-law in the bath!’

‘Alright,
alright!
I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’ll do anything, anything you say!’ pleaded the stage magician. ‘Just tell me what to do. Please—what do you want me to do?’

‘Very good!’ said Girardi, finding his smile again. ‘So—we walk, slowly and calmly, you understand, into the theatre. You say “good morning” as usual to the man on the door … What is his name, this man?’

‘Sam.’

‘So, it’s “good morning to you Sam” and then we make our way—slowly and calmly—to the dressing room,
si
?
Bene
! Let us go then.’

As they got out onto the pavement Boyd leant down to whisper in Gladys Chadwick’s ear.

‘Now listen, toots, I’m gonna put away my little gentle persuader for a while. But if you’ve got any thought of putting the squeak in on us, just remember that I could crush that pretty little neck of yours in an instant—just like that!’ he said, squeezing a fist like a giant pork knuckle under her nose.

Gladys blanched and nodded vigorously, her bright blue eyes wide with fright.

‘Please,
Maestro
, after you …’ said Girardi, holding his hand up towards the back entrance of the Palladium.

‘Ah, Mr. Medini!’ exclaimed the doorman, sitting in the small kiosk just inside the stage door. ‘My word! You’re bright and early this morning, sir—indeed you are!’

‘Morning, Sam,’ said Medini, making a brave attempt at sounding matter-of-fact. ‘Yes, we have a few little tweaks to make to one of the illusions—just a couple of minor technical adjustments, you understand.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid the riggers aren’t in yet, sir—they’ll still be at their breakfast. I could get one of the runners to go around and hurry them up if you’d like?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Sam, thank you,’ interrupted Girardi, presenting his broken smile at the small hatch. ‘
We
shall be doing Signor Medini’s rigging today—we have something
fantastico
to prepare.’

‘Oh, that’s quite alright, sir—I get it completely. After all, with this magic business you’ve got to keep it all under your hat, so to speak, haven’t you? Don’t want to give away the trade secrets, now, do we?’

‘This is very true. And you know—if all goes to plan—I predict that Signor Medini’s performance tonight will go down in history!’

‘Really, sir? Well, I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for us all. It’ll be a big surprise, I take it, the grand finale?’

‘Oh,
si
Sam—a
big
surprise!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Harley wheeled the Norton CS1 and sidecar out of the small lockup beneath the railway arch and donned his leather helmet and goggles.

He sat astride Mabel and floored the kick-start, the fruity purr of the engine causing a few curtains to twitch in the parlour windows of Bell Street.

‘’At-a-girl!’ he murmured, patting the fuel tank.

He tossed the thermos of tea into the sidecar and pulled his goggles over his eyes. It was then that he spotted the two sleek, black Wolseleys turning into the street up ahead.

Over the years Harley had developed a healthy distrust of the appearance of a CID Q car and his suspicions were now aroused as to the nature of this early morning visit from the bogeys. However, he fought the urge to flee immediately. After all, given his current professional capacity, there might be a valid reason for their appearance—it might be Pearson, or General Swales even.

He kicked up the stand and teased open the throttle, easing the bike along the road so that he could get close enough to identify the occupants of the lead car … but immediately pulled up again when he saw the front and rear passenger doors opening to disgorge four plain-clothes men.

The bogeys hadn’t clocked him yet—after all, his leather helmet and goggles were the perfect disguise; but it was obvious by the way that they’d tipped out of the Q car mob-handed that this wasn’t just a social visit. And as he watched Quigg’s loyal sidekick DS Webbe pummelling on his front door while the detective next to him unholstered his service revolver, it was also obvious that his liberty—if not his life—was in danger.

As the second Wolseley drew up alongside the first car Harley opened the throttle and roared off along the street.

The sudden growl of acceleration caught the policemen by surprise and they reeled around in shock at the noise. In the few seconds that Harley had on his approach he judged that there was just enough room for him to squeeze the motorbike combination up onto the pavement and through the gap between the second Q car
and the railings. He shifted the gears and pumped the throttle again, the street echoing with the holler of the Norton’s engine.

Just as he was about to mount the pavement and plunge through the gap, Harley became aware of two immediate problems: firstly, the bogey with the pistol had raised his arm and was now levelling the weapon at him; and secondly, directly in front of him, the passenger door of the second Q car had begun to open, reducing the space available for his escape.

He braced himself as the motorbike jolted up onto the kerb, smashed into the car door and careered into the railings, with sparks from the sidecar showering the façade of the buildings.

Having just made it through the gap Harley now had to summon all his strength to slew the bike back into the road again, to avoid hitting the lamppost he was now hurtling towards. As he did so he heard the unmistakeable sound of a bullet ricocheting off the cobbles close by. He hunkered down low and gunned the engine, swerving left and right to try to reduce the chance of the bogey picking him off with another round.

Soon, to his great relief, he’d skidded around the corner and was off, heading towards the long stretch of Tottenham Court Road, where he’d be able to put some real distance between himself and his pursuers.

But Harley needn’t have worried too much. Behind him, in their eagerness to give chase, the two police drivers had entered into a farcical disjointed tango, each jockeying for position to turn the large cars in the narrow, dead-end street, with the damaged passenger door flapping open like a broken wing every time the driver braked.

***

With a quick stop to refuel and another to grab a hot meal at a roadside transport café, it took Harley just over three hours to motor his way westward to the small Somerset village of Grubberton. Here he took a refreshing pint of ale in the local pub, and tried to tease a little information about the Chantry Hall estate from the lunchtime clientele. But the locals were a tight-lipped bunch, wary of his London accent, and although the beer was good he came out none the wiser about the layout and daily schedule of the Daubeney grounds.

So, after consulting his map he drove the mile or so to the boundary of the estate, parked up the Norton—utilising his army training to camouflage it with a dressing of branches taken from nearby trees—picked out a suitable site along the perimeter and hoisted himself over the red-brick wall.

Dropping stealthily into a soft blanket of mulch, he pulled out his pistol and set off through the woodland, tracking one of the driveways from the dense cover of trees.

Before long Harley was in sight of the main house—an impressive conglomerate of Elizabethan and English Baroque, sprawling behind an ornamental lake with a stunning backdrop of rolling Somerset hills. He took out the folded map and checked a small pocket compass, turning forty-five degrees to his left before setting off again into the trees.

After a few hundred yards he’d discovered what he’d been searching for: the Chantry Hall family chapel—a small stone church of a much older and simpler design than that of the main house. The building was tucked away in a clearing surrounded by dense woodland, served by a simple footpath spurring off from the main driveway.

The Somerset sky was overcast, the lowering, iron-grey clouds holding the threat of rain over the estate, and although it had only just gone two o’clock in the afternoon the surrounding canopy of trees cast the chapel in such gloom that the lights inside burned brightly, illuminating the narrow archways of the windows.

Remaining for the moment within the cover of the trees Harley now pocketed his map and compass and assessed the lie of the land. As he stood quietly and held his breath he thought he could just make out the sound of someone moving around inside the chapel; there it was again—no conversation to be heard, just the odd rustling noise and what sounded like the scraping of a chair across a stone floor.

Somewhere off in the distance behind him a gunshot sounded, prompting a clatter of protesting crows to take to the wing above his head. Harley reacted instinctively, throwing himself behind the tree and pulling in tightly so that he was completely hidden by the trunk. He flipped off the Luger’s safety and listened intently.

From the same direction he now heard the excited barking of dogs, quickly followed by another crack from the weapon.
Shotgun
, he thought, relaxing his position.
Just someone hunting … sodding countryside!

He moved back to his original position and observed the chapel for a little longer. Then, still using the cover of the trees, he made his way to the back of the building to slip across the clearing, crouching low against the pale grey stone. He moved slowly along the side wall towards a weathered oak door set halfway along … but a tentative push soon revealed this to be locked.

Harley continued cautiously towards the main double doors of the church, one of which lay wide open. Pausing at the corner he held his breath and listened intently again. There was a sniff, followed by what sounded like a sob, then again—whoever was inside the church was now crying.

Knowing how vulnerable he would be if he made his entrance through the main door, he slipped back to the trees and began to search around on the ground. Before long he’d found a suitable-looking stick which he pared at the end with his penknife. From an inside pocket he fished out the leather pouch containing his essential field kit. Amongst other things in this pouch there were magnets, razor blades, lock picks, horsehair for trigs, and a phial of chloral hydrate to be used as knock-out drops. He fished out a small compact mirror which he wedged into the split end of the stick.

Stealthily retracing his steps Harley made his way back to the corner of the building, crouched down, and gingerly advanced the stick, angling the mirror so as to get a view of the interior of the chapel.

There was the Reverend Giles Pembroke, in his clerical vestments, slumped on the steps leading to the altar, his head in his hands. Harley used the mirror as best he could to quickly scan the rest of the interior. It appeared that the vicar was alone—alone and sobbing to himself.

Concentrating the reflected view back on Pembroke again, he noticed something he couldn’t quite make out, held between the clergyman’s legs. As he watched the vicar leant down to grab at a half-full bottle of whisky—giving Harley a clear view of the double-barrelled shotgun resting against his thigh.

He pulled the stick back, pocketed the mirror and waited a few seconds for the unmistakeable squeaky pop of the whisky bottle’s cork. Calculating that Pembroke’s hands would now be busy for a short while, Harley seized the moment and pounced into the doorway, the Luger held out steadily before him.

He managed to advance the first few steps without Pembroke noticing him. When the vicar did finally lower the bottle enough to see him, he gave out a little yelp of surprise and fumbled for his gun, pointing it shakily towards Harley.

‘
Stop right there!
’

‘Alright, Reverend,’ said Harley, pausing at the back row of pews, levelling the pistol at Pembroke’s chest. ‘Easy does it! We don’t want any accidents, now, do we?’

‘It wouldn’t be an accident,’ said Pembroke, who was obviously considerably intoxicated, his bloated face reddened and smudged with dirty tear stains. ‘I’ll … I’ll shoot you if you come any closer!’ He struggled awkwardly to his feet.

‘No you won’t. After all—you’re a man of the cloth.’

‘You don’t know the first thing about me … I’ll shoot you dead where you stand, I tell you, if you don’t put that gun down.’

‘I may not know too much about you, Rev, but I know that you’re not gonna shoot me dead—that’s stone-ginger. I mean, for a start, there’s the drink. I don’t know how much was in that bottle when you started, but you don’t have to be a doctor to realize that you’ve had a tidy skinful. See, that affects your reactions—your hand-eye coordination, your sensory perception. Whereas me—I’m cold sober.’ Harley now took a tentative step forward.

‘Stop, I said!
Stop moving!
’ The barrel of the shotgun in Pembroke’s hand wove erratically in the air before him.

‘Then there’s the training. See, I’ve been trained by the best. I know how to take a man out … just when to pull the trigger in a situation such as this … where to aim for … By the way—did you serve in the war, Rev? Probably a bit young to be an army chaplain, weren’t you?’

‘I drove an ambulance—VAD … I did my bit, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant at all. My point was that … Well, you’ve probably never fired a gun in anger before, have you? And if you have, I’m sure you’ve never killed a man at close quarters; never seen the results of your bloody handiwork up close, as it were … Whereas me—trench-raiding party, hand-to-hand combat. Close up and dirty. Sticking a bayonet up under the rib cage and twisting it home as you stare into his eyes, the stink of his last breath in your nostrils …’ Harley took another step up the aisle.

‘Stop it,
damn you!
’

‘Then there’s the difference in weapons. I mean, it’s laughable when you think about it, the comparison. What’s that—a twelve bore?’

‘I … I don’t know; a shotgun.’

‘Yeah, well, your shotgun is a scatter gun, ain’t it, basically? Sure, you got hundreds of little pellets, but the force of the charge has to be shared amongst ’em all; basic physics, really. I suppose even in your state you’ve got a slim chance of clipping me—when you make your move and I dive out the way. But even if you clip me with shot you ain’t gonna incapacitate me, are yer? Whereas this here’s a fine piece of German engineering—the Luger PO eight; accurate and deadly. It’s semiautomatic, you see—which means when we’re dodging about behind these pews, taking pot-shots at each other—although, if I’m honest with you Rev, I don’t fancy your chances of being alive long enough to do any dodging about—but anyway, if by some miracle you get a chance to take your pot-shots at me, well, you’ve only got two chances, ain’t yer? Then you’ve got to go fumbling about in your pocket for another couple of cartridges—that’s if you’ve remembered to bring any spare ammo in the first place, or if you’ve actually got
any pockets in that frock of yours. And what with the drink and the adrenalin … well, your little fingers will be all over the place … But the Luger—totally different story. One in the chamber and seven in the magazine. No reloading necessary.
Pop, pop, pop!
Although, quite frankly, it’ll just be,
pop!
So—what’s it to be Rev? You still think you’re gonna shoot me dead if I don’t put the gun down?’

‘I … I don’t …’

Pembroke’s eyes unfocussed for a moment. He swayed a little, then sat down heavily on the step and promptly vomited onto the worn flagstones.

Harley seized the opportunity, rushing in to force the vicar’s head down violently and swipe the shotgun from his hands.

‘Sorry, sunshine! Only I don’t like having shooters pointed at me—makes me nervous, see?’

He cracked open the breach of the twelve bore and pocketed the cartridges, then slid the gun under one of the pews.

The vicar gave a moan and splattered more vomit onto the church floor.

‘You alright there?’

‘Don’t shoot!
Please don’t shoot!
I’m … I’m not ready …’

‘Listen—no one’s gonna be shooting anyone, believe me. I’m working for the police.’

‘No you’re not … I knew they’d send someone … I’ve been waiting. I thought it would be the Italian.’

‘
The Italian?
D’you mean Girardi?’

Pembroke sat up and blew his nose on the hem of his chasuble. ‘Tell me—what would it take?’ he said, slurring his words. ‘What would it take … to make sure it’s quick, painless? I have money,’ he waved his hand towards the back of the church. ‘You can have the money. What’s your name?’

‘George. We’ve met before—at the soup kitchen that night of the bombing. I’m sure
you
remember the bombing now, don’t you, Rev?’

Pembroke tried to focus his drunken eyes on the private detective.