Authors: Mark Ellis
The Count rose to his feet. “Good evening, Commissioner. We prefer to leave the ‘in exile’ bit out, of course.”
“Indeed, indeed, my apologies, Count, Countess. I hope all is well with you, insofar as it can be of course. Yes, well. Do enjoy your dinner. Come along, my dear.” Maud cast a glacial smile back at the couple as she followed in her brother’s wake.
As they watched the A.C. and his sister clumsily edge their way through the tables, the Countess giggled. “What a strange pair! Who is he?”
“The Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, my dear. Quite a powerful man.” Pleased that his wife had relaxed enough to laugh, the Count decided to focus on the menu. The Dover sole was always good here. Little sign of shortage or restraint yet in Claridges. Thank God!
Chapter 13
Saturday, September 14
It was just after midnight and Johnson and Cole were standing in a corner of Buckingham Palace courtyard.
“Not quite where you imagined we’d spend the night, eh, Cole?”
“No, sir. My mum will never believe it.”
It had been raining on and off all evening and a gusty wind had just got up and was swirling down the Mall.
The Germans had not come in their greatest numbers that evening, but there had still been a steady flow of bombers. It seemed to Johnson that a plane was passing over them every ten or fifteen minutes. For the first time, bombs had landed in front of the palace, doing some damage to the Victoria Memorial, and also at the other side of the courtyard from where they stood and where Jack Stewart and his team were now dealing with a number of burning vehicles. The palace itself had not yet been hit as far as Johnson could see. A roving searchlight caught the bright colours of the Royal Standard fluttering high above the two policemen. As Johnson understood it, if the Standard was flying, the King was in residence. He wondered whether there was some special luxurious air raid shelter beneath the palace where the royal family were now huddling away from the bombs.
“The King and his family must be somewhere down below, don’t you think, Cole?”
Cole was about to answer when a look of astonishment came over his face. “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
Johnson followed Cole’s gaze and turned to see a slight man in evening suit approaching them. His face, illuminated by the glare of the fires around them, was instantly recognisable.
“G… good evening o… o… officers. Are you sure you are s… safe over here?”
Johnson seldom found himself tongue-tied, but he was now. It was Cole who found his voice first.
“We are fine, sir. Thank you.”
A voice sounded in the dark behind the King. “Bertie, where are you?”
“Here I am, d… darling. I am with these brave p… p… policemen.”
The slight figure of the Queen emerged from the murk to the right. She was wearing a fur coat despite the blasts of heat blowing across the courtyard. “Good evening, gentlemen. Is it sensible of you to be here? The firemen seem to have everything in hand.”
Johnson finally found his voice. “We are attached to the Auxiliary Fire Service, your… er… Majesty. On a special mission.”
The King withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and lit up. His wife put her arm through his. “Oh, that sounds exciting, doesn’t it, Bertie? Might one enquire as to what that might be?”
“Well, your, er, well, we are trying to get to grips with the looting problem.”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely dreadful. Mr Churchill was telling us about the p… p… problem the other night. However, Mr… er…”
“Johnson, sir. Inspector Johnson and this is Detective Constable Cole.”
“G… good to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I was just going to s… say that you might be in the wrong p… place for that… I… I think that these s… swine would have to be pretty stupid to try that game here, eh, my dear?”
The unlikely group was suddenly lit up by the glare of a bomb exploding behind them in St James’s Park. The air was quickly filled by the angry complaints of the park’s avian inhabitants. Then another explosion sounded, this time more distant, in the direction of Westminster.
“Bertie, my dear, perhaps we had better go back in. There’s courage and then there’s foolhardiness. It’s not going to help the country much if the next bomb lands on your head.”
The King flicked cigarette ash in irritation on the ground, then gave the policemen an apologetic smile. “Always d… do what your wife tells you, g… gentlemen. Isn’t that always b… best? Very well, my dear, l… lead on. Pleasure to meet you both. T… take care. Your country needs you.”
The royal couple disappeared into the dark and Johnson and Cole stood in stunned silence for a while. From the point of view of their mission, of course, Johnson knew that the King was quite right. Because the bombing had brought Stewart’s team to the royal home, they would learn nothing about looters tonight. They had, however, had an experience they would never forget. Suddenly they broke into laughter.
Jack Stewart came up to them, looking bedraggled, exhausted and confused. “What’s so funny then?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, Jack.”
“Why don’t you try me?”
* * *
Sir Bernard Spilsbury had passed a disturbed night in his St John’s Wood house. However, it was not the bombing this time that had ruined his sleep, as it had for most of the previous week. Rather, he thought, the improperly prepared haddock he had consumed at dinner at his club. Also, no doubt, his digestion had not been helped by the encounter after dinner with Sir Norman Birkett, the renowned advocate, who had given him such a hard time over his evidence in the “Brighton trunk” case a few years ago. During the inter-war period, Spilsbury, accepted by all as the founder of the science of forensic pathology, had been regarded almost as a god-like figure.
Time
magazine had described him as “the living successor to the mythical Sherlock Holmes”. He had been unchallenged as the leading medical expert witness in murder cases ever since his crucial evidence in the infamous case of Dr Crippen. However, in recent years there had been a slight weakening of his pre-eminence, which had all started with this blasted Birkett fellow. He brooded on this as his chauffeur-driven car drew up to the St Pancras Coroner’s Court. As his driver opened the door, he looked down to check that his habitual spats were as pristine as usual, or rather as pristine as usual at the start of his day – frequently by the end of it they were flecked with blood. He picked up his battered Gladstone bag from the seat beside him and extricated his long, thin body from the car.
As he entered the hallway of the building he spotted the chief coroner emerging from a door to his right. “Ah, Bentley, my dear man. How goes it?”
An elegant middle-aged man with a spray of silvery hair above his ears walked briskly over to him. “Busy, busy, Bernard, as always. There’s a body waiting for you downstairs, if you are free. Post-mortem requested by the Yard, chap by the name of Merlin requested haste. The deceased is a Polish pilot who seems to have suffered the natural consequences of being in the wrong place at the wrong time during a German raid, but the police think there might more to it. Can you do it?”
“Of course, my dear fellow. Who better?”
* * *
Miro Kubicki sat in the cockpit of his Hurricane, his dark head throbbing in time with the engine. He had drunk a little too much vodka with his friends last night to mourn Kilinski. Jan had clearly been very upset and Jerzy very gloomy. As far as he was concerned, the pushy little Jewish prick had got what was coming to him. Kilinski had pretended not to be a Jew, but Miro could always tell. His father had educated him well about how to treat Jews. When out hunting once with his father and grandfather in their estate near Krakow, they had come across a small caravan containing a family of proverbial wandering Jews – a father, mother and two teenage boys. Such sport they had had – his father had told the males they had a ten-minute start; they ran off into the woods and then they were mercilessly run down and hacked to death. Returning to the caravan, his grandfather had insisted on Miro having the wailing mother, a woman who would have been quite attractive were it not for the tears rolling down her cheeks and the shrieking of her distorted mouth. After he had done his business, for what was only the second time in his young life, his father had pulled out his revolver and shot her neatly in the middle of her forehead. The caravan had been torched and the hunting party had happily made its way home. The estate and his family’s wealth had disappeared several years ago now, of course. All thanks to Jewish bankers and his father’s profligacy. God, he hated Jews.
He knew, of course, that Jan had some Jewish blood in him. Perhaps that’s why he was so upset about Kilinski – these people always bonded together, didn’t they? He had a soft spot for Jan though – he didn’t look Jewish and he had such charm. His sister was a bit of a looker too, as he had noticed on her recent trip to the base. Jerzy had said something about the policeman walking out with her. That was a pity, but things might change. Many things changed overnight in this war.
One of the ground crew waved at him. The blocks were away. He saw Jan manoeuvring his plane in front of him and then accelerating into the sky. They were heading southeast towards Dover and the Channel. The concentration required for flying his Hurricane soon drove away his headache. How many kills could he add to his tally today?
* * *
Merlin had arranged to meet Sonia at 11am by the main kiosk in St James’s Park. They bought some currant-buns and cups of tea and sat by the lake, watching a group of ducks dive-bombing the water.
“So, it is sad about Jan’s friend, Frank. Do you know how he died?”
“No. He was in the rubble of a bombed building so the obvious cause is being crushed by debris. I just feel that’s not the answer. It appears that he was on some sort of personal mission and I can’t believe that he was just a mundane bombing casualty. There should be a post-mortem going on now.”
Sonia idly tore off a piece of bun and threw it towards the ducks. “Any idea at all about this ‘mission’ he was on?”
“Not really. There are just a few scattered clues. We found some gold on him. It has the stamp of some ancient Polish family on it.”
“Which family?”
“Stanislawicki. Did I pronounce that right?”
Sonia threw the rest of her bun towards the ducks. “Very good, Frank. I have heard the name. I think they have been around a long time, yes?”
“Apparently so. We also found a picture of an ancient Aztec necklace or amulet or whatever it’s called. Kilinski also paid a visit to a leading member of the Polish delegation here in London, a Count Tarkowski.”
“Again, I recognise the name. Why was he visiting this man? What had Ziggy to do with the Polish delegation?”
“I don’t know. Tarkowski was not very forthcoming. He said Ziggy had asked a question about the finances of the Polish government in exile.”
Some of the ducks were now wandering up to Sonia in hope of further food. “I only met Ziggy once or twice. A gloomy fellow. Jan said he was good fun, but I couldn’t see it myself.”
“There was a family picture in his room. He had a brother who Jan said he wouldn’t talk about.”
“Yes, I remember him mentioning that. Some sort of craftsman, he said.”
“Looks like he told you more than Jan. Must be that pretty face that loosened his mouth.”
Merlin reached up to stroke Sonia’s cheek and smiled. Sonia pulled her head away sharply. “Don’t, Frank. The poor man’s dead.”
“Sorry, my dear.”
Sonia turned back to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “No, I am sorry, my darling. I don’t know why I reacted like that. It just seems that death is everywhere around us. I try to keep your English stiff upper lip, but sometimes…”
Merlin hugged her tight then planted his lips on hers. They held their embrace until a park warden approached them, making loud tutting noises.
Merlin stood up and pulled her to her feet. “I have to go and see my miserable brother now, Sonia. You are welcome to come, but it’s not going to help cheer you up.”
Sonia withdrew a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her nose. “No, darling. Thank you, but I said I’d do the afternoon shift at the shop today. Will I see you tonight?”
“I am not sure. I am going to pop into the Yard after I’ve seen Charlie – I’ll call you from there. Oh, by the way, there’s a classical concert on at St Martin’s Lane tomorrow. Handel, I think. Shall we?”
Sonia nodded enthusiastically before kissing him on the cheek and hurrying away towards the park gate.
* * *
“Como te va, Carlos?” Charlie Merlin, or Carlos Merino as he had been christened, glanced at his brother from the wheelchair in a corner of the room by the fireplace. The brothers shook hands and Frank took the chair on the other side of the fireplace and attempted a hearty cheerfulness he did not feel.
“Where are Beatrice and the boy?”
“They just nipped out to the local shop to get something. Biscuits for you, I should think.”
“Ah. Do you need anything while we are waiting?”
“A spare leg would come in handy.”
Merlin sighed. He hoped that his sister-in-law and nephew’s trip was a brief one.
“Sorry, Frank. I just can’t help myself.” A small tear tracked its way down his left cheek.
“Oh, Charlie.” A squall of rain thumped suddenly against the back window and they both held their breath for a moment, then smiled.
“I guess if the weather’s bad our German friends might find the Channel a bit of a handful. Any insights at the Yard as to Hitler’s plans?”
“Nothing that you don’t know or guess, I should think. He and Goering hope to pummel us into submission in the air, then sweep in and take over. There are reports everywhere of troops and ships massing off France. As far as I can see, the RAF are doing a great job, but how long can they keep it up?”