Mask of the Verdoy (48 page)

‘Then they are planning a coup?’

‘I can’t say … I’ve said too much,
too much
 … Oh, dear Lord! What have I been saying?’

Pembroke looked in horror at the front door.

‘
What was that?
’

‘Nothing—a bird or something, in the woods.’

‘There’s someone out there! They’re coming for me, they’ve been listening, I tell you! Oh, dear God! It’s the Italian—with his syringe!’ He began to snivel again, wringing his hands in front of him. ‘“
Behold, he that keepeth Israel, shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord himself is thy keeper, the Lord is thy defence upon thy right hand …”
’

‘Calm down, won’t yer! I’m telling you there’s no one there.’

With the Luger held out before him, Harley now walked back down the aisle and peered cautiously out through the arched doorway.

‘See—what did I tell yer? No one there.’

But Pembroke was still on his knees, his hands clasped before him.

‘“
The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil. Yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth, for evermore …”
’

‘We ain’t got time for all that, Rev. I’m afraid you’ve only got me to look to if you want preserving. You need to tell me about the Correction—give us a chance to stop them.’

‘I can’t, I tell you! They’re listening, I know they are. They’re too powerful … too powerful. You’ll never stop them.’

‘Come with me to London, then. We can protect you, you’ll see. You can tell us when you feel safer.’

‘No! You don’t know what they can do—it’s a living death, a lifetime of raging, screaming insanity! No … 
no!
’ The vicar began sobbing hysterically, prostrating himself before the altar.

Cursing, Harley ran to him and yanked him to his feet.

‘For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together!’ he shouted, slapping Pembroke firmly across the face.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry … but they’re coming, I know they are.’

‘Then you need to leave with me then, don’tcha? Come on! Let’s get going now. I’ve got the shooter, I can protect you.’

Pembroke gazed up at the large wooden cross suspended above the altar. He closed his eyes and moved his lips silently. He turned to Harley and gave a sigh.

‘I will, I’ll come … but I won’t speak about the Correction, not until you can prove that you can guarantee my safety.’

‘Alright, fair enough … Come on, let’s get a move on. Have you got a coat here?’

‘Yes—through there, in the sacristy. And I must wash up first … change out of these vestments.’

‘Hold up! Show me … we don’t want you slipping out of a back window now, do we?’

Stumbling a little, Pembroke led Harley through the transept to a wooden door which opened onto a small room redolent of beeswax polish, and containing a full length mirror, a small wash basin, a rack of coat hooks, and a table holding the sacred vessels for communion.

The private detective made a quick search of the space, checking for any possible means of escape or hidden weapons.

‘Alright. It looks clean. Away you go—but don’t be too long now, will you? And wrap up warm—we’re gonna be on the road for a few hours.’

He left the drunken vicar to get himself ready for the long journey and wandered back to sit on the front row of pews and contemplate the revelation about Euphemia.

His mind reran the meetings that he’d had with her, his new perception of her exposing hidden significance: the episode at the soup kitchen with the little Jewish epileptic girl—the poignant gratitude in Mrs. Kemensky’s eyes when the aristocrat had invited them along to the free clinic … The feeble-minded patient at the hospital—Euphemia sitting authoritatively in her crisp nurse’s uniform, an administering angel prescribing a preparation for bronchitis which was actually designed to rot the mother’s ovaries … Clutching her tight to him after the bombing … and again in her apartment, her crocodile tears on his neck, the invisible blood of the unborn babies and the bombing victims on her hands. This sociopathic
Fascist monster, making such a fool of him, sullying the memory of his beautiful Cynthia …

He got up again, feeling the anger coursing through his veins, pumping his heart. He was eager for action, for revenge.

‘Come on, Reverend—get a move on!’ he shouted, pacing the floor and checking his watch.

It was then that he remembered Pembroke’s mention of the carvings on the misericords. He wasn’t exactly sure what a misericord was, but the vicar had indicated the pews on the front row, closest to the pulpit.

Harley made his way around the front of the row and sat down in the end pew, searching the dark oak panelling in front of him for any sign of the carvings. But there was nothing there, just a few notches and scratches marring the plain woodwork. He checked on the row behind, but apart from a little scrolling around the edges the carpentry of the pews was unembellished.

He got down on his knees to check the lower section and it was then that he realized that the pew seat itself was hinged. Carved on the underside of the seat—which when flipped up formed a small wooden shelf that could be leant against—was the striking image of a stylised cat, its elongated arched back and accentuated talons seemingly borrowed from the medieval interpretations of dragons.

‘
Here Kitty, Kitty!
’ murmured Harley, pulling out a facsimile of the Wild Cat International calling card from his wallet. He held the card up against the carving and, although not identical, it was obvious where the original inspiration for the image had come from.

‘So, what about Leshy, then?’ he said, flipping up the neighbouring seat.

Even though he was expecting it, Harley’s recent experiences afforded the image that now stared back at him a certain shock factor. The Green Man. Its wooden features engulfed in leaves and locked in astonishment—or fear maybe? The foliate branches bursting forth from the open mouth and nostrils, presenting a figure both eldritch and pagan. A remnant of an ancient time and an older religion, lurking within this Christian place of worship, waiting patiently in the shadows for its rebirth.

He thought of Lady Euphemia as a child holding hands with her twin brother Rupert under the influence of this dark imagery. Had she been plotting even then? Plotting with her cruel, cold intellect?

Harley looked back to the leaded window portraying the medieval victims of St Anthony’s fire, and as he did so he began to notice that there were Green Man faces dotted all around the interior of the church: on the stone corbels and capitals … on the roof bosses and
portals … even carved into the back of the lectern. A host of foliate demons. Some locked in an eternal scream of agony; some leering through their leafy beards; others laughing sinister, devilish laughs, their tongues poking out through the stone branches.

And as he watched his head began to spin, and the bitter taste of bile rose in his gullet. Before his eyes the interior of the church started to melt and run. The many faces of the Green Men clustering together to leer down at him, laughing at his naivety for falling for the guile and machinations of one of their own.

Harley reeled from his seat and staggered to the chancel steps. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and fumbled in his coat pocket for the hip flask containing the dreambug antidote. With trembling fingers he unscrewed the cap and gulped down the magenta-coloured liquid, then placed his head between his legs to take long, deep breaths.

After what seemed like an age the vertiginous spinning began to slow. He opened his eyes to a constellation of green and purple spots; but these soon cleared, and before long he felt well enough to stand up.

He looked at his watch—it had been almost twenty minutes since he’d left Pembroke in the sacristy.

He rushed across the transept to try the door. It was locked. ‘Reverend? Come on, now—open up!’

Harley rattled the door knob then placed his ear against the wood … but there was no sound from inside.

‘Come on Pembroke!
Stop your sodding about!
’

He kicked out at the door—but there was still no reply from the vicar.

‘Right!’ he said, and took a run at the door to ram it with his shoulder. There was the sound of cracking timber, but the door held fast. He added a few more steps to his run up and tried again.

This time the frame around the lock splintered away. But he was only able to open the door an inch or two—something was blocking it on the inside. Harley peered through the crack and caught sight of a dark form towards the bottom of the door.

‘Oh, no, you idiot!
No!
’

He got down on his backside and used his leg muscles to heave the door open enough for him to squeeze through.

Pembroke was on his knees inside—his clerical stole forming a short noose around the door handle—hanging there in the travesty of a penitent at prayer. His bloated face was a livid purple-black, the bloodshot eyes protruding, the swollen tongue sticking out through the pared teeth … like the Green Men staring down from the church ceiling above.

Harley worked quickly, cutting the vicar down with his penknife and loosening the ligature. But after a quick examination it was soon clear that Pembroke was past saving.

‘
Fuck it!
’ shouted Harley, getting to his feet and kicking the door.

***

Ten miles or so from Grubberton Harley pulled over at a public telephone box.

‘Miss Chambers? It’s George Harley; I need to speak to the General, immediately … No, I’m afraid I can’t wait—it’s a matter of life and death … Nope … Well, it wouldn’t matter if he was in with the
Pope
—you need to get him to the telephone
now!
 … Quite frankly I couldn’t give a monkey’s what you … Oh, yeah? Well, Miss Chambers, listen up: if you don’t go and drag your guv’nor out of that meeting this instant, I’ll be informing him about what your Charlie does for a living—all those dodgy motors he punts out to those mug punters from the Home Counties. I’m sure if we sent a Q car round to the Fiztroy Café he’d be sitting there right now with the keys to some cooked drag parked up in Warren Street … Yes, I thought that might do the trick.’

Harley smoked ferociously while he waited for Swales to come to the phone, tapping impatiently on the call-box window with a coin.

‘FW? It’s George … Has anything gone down yet? No? Well, I can tell you, it’s definitely gonna happen today—it’s stone-ginger. I got it from the vicar, Pembroke. He’s got inside knowledge—in it up to his neck … Yeah, I would do but unfortunately he didn’t make it … No, I haven’t got time to go into that now. Listen—this is important—did you manage to get the PM’s engagements cancelled? Great, I … what do you mean,
a social gathering?
 … Jesus Christ! Have you got the guest list? … Please tell me that Lady Euphemia Daubeney isn’t on it … 
Shit! …
Excuse my French, General, but if she’s there then we have a serious situation … What do I mean? I mean that Lady Euphemia Daubeney is one of the main architects of this whole Fascist plot. It’s my belief she poses a real and dangerous threat to the PM—is that clear enough? … Yeah, well, you’d be a bit chippy an’ all if you’d had the same kind of day as I’ve had. Now, what time does this shindig start? … And it’s in Belgrave Square, you say? Alright, if I hammer it I should make it in time. Get Fellowes to muster all the loyal troops he can. And get a message to Pearson—tell him to pick up Solly Rosen and meet me at The Grenadier in Wilton Row, at eight sharp … Oh, and for your information, I had a little visit from some of your finest CID officers
this morning … Quigg’s mob, of course, Savile Row … What? Well, that doesn’t exactly inspire me with confidence—as the Commissioner of the Met, I was kind of hoping that you’d know something about it. Try and put it to bed before I arrive back in The Smoke, will yer? … And if you’ve still got that old service revolver on a bit of string that you used to run around in France with I’d dig it out if I were you—you might be needing it tonight!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Harley sat waiting for Pearson and Rosen nursing a pint of ale and doing his utmost to keep his eyes open. It had already been a long day—and it was by no means over yet.

He supped on the beer and ruminated on just how easily he’d been duped by Lady Euphemia, falling under the spell of her charm and elegance, so eager to protect her from the mysterious would-be assassins. He moved his lips through a series of silent profanities, disgusted at his own stupidity, and at the thought that he’d ever associated someone so cruel and cunning with the memory of Cynthia.

‘There you go, George!’ said the barman, laying a round of sandwiches down on the table in front of Harley and nudging him out of his revelry. ‘Nice bit of tongue and piccalilli in there.’

‘Oh, right. Cheers, Alf!’ said Harley, greedily tucking into one of the quarters, realizing just how hungry he was. ‘I’m famished, as it goes—how did you guess?’

‘Looks like you’ve done one of yer all-nighters to me. I’ve been standing over there watching you … Frankly, George, you’ve got a face on yer that’s as cheerful as a plate of cold potatoes on a foggy night. So I figure: you feed the stomach, you feed the soul—right?’

‘Very philosophical,’ said Harley, with a mouthful of bread and meat.

‘Trouble with some judy, is it?’ asked Alf. ‘That’s usually at the bottom of it all.’

‘You could say that, yeah.’

‘Turned out to be something different to what you thought, eh?’

‘Blimey! You got a pack of tarot cards behind that bar, or summit’?’

‘Usual story, ain’t it? The impenetrable mind of the female of the species … You know what they say, don’t yer? You should only ever believe half of what a woman tells yer, George—the trick is, working out which half!’

Harley chuckled at this and took a pull on his beer as Alf made his way back to the bar to serve a customer.

Just then the pub door opened and in walked Pearson, closely followed by Solly Rosen. Harley checked his watch as they made their way over to his table.

‘What time do you call this? I mean—this party starts in ten minutes, don’t it?’

‘It’s a salon, or
political soiree
, apparently, according to Albert here,’ said Rosen, grabbing the last quarter of Harley’s sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth.

‘Oi, Smokey! What’s your game? That was my supper!’

‘Sorry, George!’ he said grinning as he chewed. ‘Only I’ve gotta make a bit of weight up—lost a stone in chokey, I did.’

‘You don’t exactly look like you’re wasting away.’

‘Funny—that’s what Marni said, an’ all. By the way, I hear you was involved in getting me sprung.’

‘I’d have left you banged up, but then there’d be absolutely no chance of me seeing that ten bob you owe me now, would there?’

‘Yeah, well—for what it’s worth, it’s appreciated.’

‘Strike me pink! That weren’t an actual thank-you, was it? Not from Smokey Rosen?’

‘Listen, I hate to break up this little reunion, but shouldn’t we be reconnoitring the venue?’ said Pearson.

‘Well actually, Albert,’ said Harley, standing up and pulling on his jacket. ‘Some of us have been here half an hour already.’ He fished out some change and left it on the table. ‘Right then, you got the address?’

‘Yes, it’s just around the corner, in Belgrave Square—not far from Lord Daubeney’s place. Marchford House—belongs to Lord and Lady Wingford. It’s her do tonight …’ Pearson consulted his notebook. ‘Sybil Wingford—some kind of political hostess, by all accounts.’

‘Yeah, she’s always in the papers, ain’t she,’ said Harley. ‘Throws these lavish bashes for the great and the good, getting them pissed and trying to provoke them into saying something outrageous at the dinner table. There’s always some posh columnist invited along to guarantee it all gets written up in the following day’s paper. Keeps the whole merry-go-round spinning, I suppose. Right, off we go then—let’s catch ourselves some Fascists, eh?
Cheers Alf!
’ he shouted, grabbing his hat from the bench seat and leading the way out of the pub.

The entrance to The Grenadier was up a short flight of stone steps and as Harley now reached the bottom of these steps he felt the unmistakeable prod of a pistol’s muzzle in the small of his back.

‘George Harley—I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

Harley made a quick assessment of the situation before he reacted to DS Webbe’s announcement: there were four bogeys including Webbe on the pavement, and three more who had just slipped out of the pub behind them on the steps. Two of the individuals with Webbe looked like Flying Squad, as did the character with the cauliflower
ears and the broken nose pushing his revolver into Solly Rosen’s gut. Even with the aid of the Yiddish Thunderbolt, he didn’t fancy their chances with this one.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Rosen. ‘If it ain’t the Sweeney—and there’s me thinking there was summit’ up with the drains, George.’

‘Sergeant Webbe,’ said Pearson, squeezing his way around Harley. ‘I think there’s been some mistake. Harley here—well, all of us, in fact—are working on a case for Commissioner Swales. It’s of utmost importance that we’re allowed to continue.’

‘You and the big fella can do what you please, Detective Constable. After all, you’ve both served your purpose by leading me to this one. However, we will be escorting Harley here back to the station immediately—there’s a warrant out for his arrest in association with the murder of DI Quigg. Orders of the Home Secretary.’

‘DI Quigg? But we’ve got a full confession from Charlie Highstead for that, haven’t we?’

‘I’d advise you to keep out of this, Detective Constable—if you know what’s good for you. I’ve been chasing this bastard around town all day. He’s pinched, I tell you—and that’s final!’

‘And I’m telling you that the Metropolitan Police Commissioner will be meeting me at an address just around the corner in five minutes time and he will be expecting George Harley to be with me.’

‘I’d save yer breath, if I were you, Albert,’ said Harley, taking the last drag on his cigarette and flicking the butt away. ‘This one was Quigg’s right-hand man, remember. And if ABH is involved … well, it all stinks to high heaven, don’t it?’

‘That’s right, Pearson,’ said Webbe, beginning to lose the little patience he had left. ‘Listen to your pal here and put a sock in it, will you? Before I pinch you as well, for obstructing the law. Now come on sherlock, over to the car, nice and slow.’

‘Oh, but I think I might have something here that will convince you of Harley’s innocence, Sergeant,’ said Pearson, taking a step closer to Webbe.

‘Have you now? I doubt that very much. But go on—surprise me, why don’t you? I’m always up for a laugh.’

‘Well, it’s just this …’ said Pearson, pressing his own gun into Webbe’s stomach.

There was a swish of gabardine and in an instant three more service revolvers had been produced to point at Pearson’s head.

‘Oh that’s just dandy, Albert—what a brilliant plan!’ said Harley, shaking his head. ‘See, this is why I bloody hate shooters—they make everyone act like they’re James Cagney.’

‘Hey!’ said Rosen. ‘Don’t knock it, George—the kid’s got class. I like your style, Albert.’

‘Shut it, sheeny!’ said the Flying Squad office with the wrestler’s ears.

Rosen adopted an exaggerated look of disappointment.

‘Oh dear! What did you have to go and say that for, sweetheart? I mean—you’ve gone and made this personal now, ain’t yer?’

Judging that the situation was about to rapidly spiral out of control Harley now shouted out at the top of his voice.

‘
Alf!
’

Within a few seconds the barman had poked his head round the pub door.

‘Lummie, George! What’s all this then?’

‘Not too sure yet, Alf. But why don’t you get the punters out to have a butcher’s anyway? It’s bound to be entertaining, whatever happens.’

‘Alright then—won’t be a mo’!’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort—’ began Webbe; but Alf had already disappeared back inside, only to emerge a few seconds later with a group of the locals, clutching their pint pots and jostling for the best view of the excitement.

‘Alright, Mr. Webbe,’ said Harley. ‘Looks like it’s your move.’

Webbe spun around at the sound of vehicles entering the mews behind him. Soon two sleek Wolseleys had turned the corner and were pulling up beside the other parked Q cars.

‘Oh dear, Harley,’ said Webbe, turning back to regard the private detective with a grin on his face. ‘It looks like the reinforcements have just arrived. Even with your devil’s luck I can’t see you walking away from this one now.’

‘Ooh, I dunno about that,’ said Harley, watching the large figure emerging from the back seat of the lead car.

‘Harley!’ shouted General Swales, his face ruddy with annoyance. ‘What the bally hell is going on here, man? You do realize what the time is, don’t you? There’s a time and place for playing silly buggers, and this isn’t it, believe me!’

‘Funny—we were just trying to explain that exact same thing to Mr. Webbe here, FW.’

The rest of the raiding party—which included Constantine Fellowes and Colonel Chesterton—now poured out of the two cars and took their place at Swales’ side. As they did so the General caught sight of the group of gawping drinkers gathered around the pub’s entrance. He offered them a charming smile.

‘I’m afraid the show is over, ladies and gentlemen! Now, if you wouldn’t mind kindly returning to the hostelry?’

‘If it’s all the same with you,’ said Alf, with a cheeky grin. ‘It looks to me like the fun’s just beginning, guv’nor. I think we’d rather stay for the second half.’

The General’s face took on a deeper shade of puce as he began to vigorously smooth down the ends of his moustache.

‘
I, sir, am the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police!
’ he bellowed. ‘And if you do not remove your clientele from those steps immediately, I shall have your licence revoked. Do I make myself clear, sir?’

Needing no further reiteration Alf and his customers hurried back inside, the door banging shut behind them.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Fellowes, as he buttoned his Astrakhan coat, flanked by two burly SIS agents. ‘Fellowes, Special Branch … Now, you Flying Squad johnnies there, we’ve got a little jaunt about to start in five minutes, and you boys may well come in handy. It’s an S50. Your CO will of course be the General, and under absolutely no circumstances should you contemplate using your initiative. Is that all clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’ came the reply in unison.

‘Capital! So—what are we waiting for? Holster your weapons and report to Colonel Chesterton here for a quick briefing.’

The three Flying Squad officers peeled away from the group to receive their orders from the SIS agent.

General Swales now took a step closer to the remaining policemen.

‘You other fellows—CID, are you?’

Webbe’s colleagues offered a combination of sheepish replies and half nods.

‘Which station?’

‘Savile Row, sir,’ said one of the bogeys from the steps.

‘Oh dear,’ said Swales, ‘Savile Row, you say? Well, that simply won’t do, I’m afraid. No, no, no—that won’t do at all. Back into your vehicle with you and return to the station to await further instruction.’

The policemen glanced at Webbe before shrugging their shoulders at each other and slinking off towards their Q car.

Now only Webbe remained, his pistol still trained on Harley.

‘And you—Webbe, isn’t it? Weren’t you DI Quigg’s colleague?’

‘Yes, sir, only—’

‘I suggest you holster your weapon and follow your orders, DI Webbe … Well? What are you waiting for?
Immediately, damn it!
’

‘But, I
am
following orders, sir—orders from the Home Secretary Mr. Box-Hartnell. I am to bring Harley in for questioning as a murder suspect. He was very explicit, sir.’

Swales, his eyes bulging in disbelief, now turned to Fellowes.

‘Constantine, have this lunatic disarmed and arrested, immediately! And if he puts up any kind of resistance have him shot—oh, nothing too serious, you understand, just something to teach him a lesson.’

‘Now, Sir Frederic, you know very well we can’t do that,’ said Fellowes discreetly.

‘Well, he doesn’t have to know that does he?’ said the General, under his breath. He turned to address the small group on the steps again. ‘Now, come on, Harley, Pearson … Mr. Rosen! This is no time to be lounging about. Look sharp! We have important work to do.’

Harley beamed a smile at Webbe and patted his cheek.

‘’Fraid it’s not your day, sunshine, is it? He’s all yours, boys,’ he said, standing aside to allow the two SIS agents to cuff Webbe and lead him into the custody of his own Savile Row colleagues.

Swales now gestured to Harley with his index finger.

‘Now listen, George,’ he said, pulling the private detective out of earshot of the rest of the team. ‘This soiree you’ve somehow convinced me to gatecrash is being attended by the absolute crème de la crème of English society. Are you absolutely certain you’ve got this thing figured out correctly? I shudder to think of the consequences if we go in there all guns blazing only to discover that you’ve made some kind of a blunder. The Home Secretary, for one, would certainly have my head on a spike. And I needn’t remind you that there aren’t many of us left in the right camp as far as these Verdoy—’

‘Are you sure that Lady Euphemia is on the guest list?’ interrupted Harley.

‘I have it on good authority that she is, yes.’

‘And Saint Clair, and the PM?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, I’m as sure as I can be that the Correction starts here, tonight, with the removal of Ramsay MacDonald.’

‘And your evidence for such an assumption?’

‘A lining up of all the clues … a confession from Giles Pembroke … and—to be honest—my gut feeling, FW.’

‘
Your gut feeling?!
I’m about to put my career on the line here, George—I’m not sure a gut feeling is quite good enough.’

‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got at this stage. But, I’m telling you—if we don’t move now we’re gonna lose the PM … and then these Fascist bastards will just waltz straight in. You’ve got to ask yourself this, FW—are you really prepared to stand by and watch that happen?’