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The Zanzibar DirectiveTable of ContentsChapter 1IncomingKehaar2Chapter 2Hitting the BeachMatt Farr6Chapter 3SleepingTracey Hobson10Chapter 4 Thirsty WorkStephen Cowley12Chapter 5The KeyStuart Stansfield17Chapter 6MovementsDr. C B Jambalayo25Chapter 7The PolicemenCaroline Cormack32Chapter 8Muddy WatersKehaar37Chapter 9In the Midst of LifeMatt Farr50Chapter 10Meanwhile, In Cairo…Stephen Cowley56 HYPERLINK ":\\Users\\AndrewC\\Documents\\Writings\\The%20Zanzibar%20Directive%2017.doc" \l "Chapter11" Chapter 11The Street of Ouled NaolsStuart Stansfield64 HYPERLINK ":\\Users\\AndrewC\\Documents\\Writings\\The%20Zanzibar%20Directive%2017.doc" \l "Chapter12" Chapter 12Death and RemembranceCaroline Cormack74Chapter 13Delving DeepKehaar83Chapter 14HuntersMatt Farr94Chapter 15Blood and DeathStephen Cowley104Chapter 16Of Bulls and BeetlesStuart Stansfield115Chapter 17An Unholy AllianceCaroline Cormack121Chapter 18Matt Farr133Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 1IncomingBy KehaarJames Kenton crouched under the edge of the hedgerow. His overcoat wound tight around him. A camel glowing in his cupped hands. No one would see, trench trick, smuggler’s trick. The familiar tastes helping him fight the nerves. The blackness only relented when the moon flirted from behind travelling clouds. A perfect night. The only sound the rolling of the Ocean on the shore, river on bank, quarter mile behind him in either direction. Families with the wireless, sailors in pubs, holiday makers at the Tower, none of them a problem, and all far away.The Moon made one of her coy peeks. His eyes night-adjusted, focussed. Unfamiliar figures walking up the dirt track. Heavy overcoats tight, hats pulled down, obscuring scarves. It was not whom he was expecting, and ahead of time to boot.Ne’bien pas. The Moon abandoned him, giving him to the darkness. He killed the cigarette carefully trying not to show any flicker. Had they seen him? No password had been whispered. Stay calm. Kenton’s right hand travelled to the heavy kit bag aside him and looped the carrying cord in his hand. A click. That was a click. And another, Safety catches? Crouched legs ready to spring. Here the footsteps clear now. Twenty yards at most. ‘I’m out of here buddy’ ringing in his head.One fluid motion. One clear move. On his feet, turned, running the kit bag swung in the same act of grace over his shoulder and pounding, pounding down the road. Towards the Ocean. Pounding feet and roaring heart killing quiet curses and commands from pursuers. Down the road, kit bag as light as his heart as heavy as this conscience beating his back with each hastened stride.End of the road. Start of the beach. Running, running still, slower now loafer feet sinking into the dune sand. The Moon plays peak-a-boo with grass topped dunes. Echoes of Ostend memories. A cross-shoulder glance, in the moonlight speeding pursuers their arms out, revolvers glistening.Feet feeling dragged by the sand. Past more dunes. Unintelligible cries from behind. Must get lost in the dunes and head north to happy holiday makers and courting couples and safety. Past one dune and another, leap over craggy driftwood and bank right. Legs collapse, heart gives a standing ovation, the lungs come out in sympathy. Short whiskey soured breaths.Listening, sheltered by a five foot mound of sand, knees on moist ground, shoulder resting against half rooted grass. A pause in the pounding pursuit. A conversation commenced. Beating blood in ears drowning out the words, the language even but French experience saying tactics is the topic. The wind brushed him and left making mocking moans. Whispers nearer now, time to go and rapidly, new efforts driving forward despite lungs protests. No pursuit, no pursuit!The hounds exchange a glance and then look to the fox. Forearms are crossed in front of faces and barrels are rested upon them. Breathing is slowed and hammers cocked. Gentle pressures are consistently applied and in short order hammers fall. The efforts of generations of munitioners explode in the time honoured and predictable manner. Expanding gasses vomit shaped lumps of lead down steel tubes. Rifled grooves twist the freed bullets in the required fashion. They fly straight and true through he sea air. Raping through cloth and flesh and bone and organ. A crumpled figure falls aside a heavy, heavy kit bag.“So far on journey our compartment has been shared with thirty-five travellers besides Inspector Morris and myself between various stops from London to required destination (so far, we have just left Chester station.) Of aforementioned travellers twenty-nine have been male and six have been female. Two have been children, sixteen young persons, twenty of middle years and two of pronounced old age. Estimation of occupations would suggest of female travellers there have been:Four nuns,A schoolmistress A young widow of indeterminable means of support. Of gentlemen travellers we have the following:Eight company directors, Nine travelling salesmen with ideas above their stationFour civil servantsA Zoo keeper with a snuff addictionA Naval Officer with a liking for young widows An obtuse German of limited language skills and a passion for ChesterA Vicar, Denomination unknown other than not a PapistA retired general whom interrogated everyone on their war service, including the unfortunate German.An Inventor of commendable enthusiasm but with less communication talents than the GermanTwo School BoysOf papers read by passengers there have beenSix copies of The TimesFour Evening StandardsEight Daily Mails (The Salesman element)A Daily Express (see above)A German text on archaeologyA weathered copy of one of Crompton’s ‘Just William’ booksA torn copy of the Dandy” “Sir is this really necessary?”Morris glanced over from his contemplation of the flatness of what was depending on whom you spoke to, the end of the Midlands or the start of the North. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, removed his pipe from his mouth to reveal high yellow teeth and remained silent. “This jotting of details on our travelling companions sir, and their reading habits Sir, I mean,” Sergeant Taylor scanned around the empty carriage “and quite frankly I don’t see what the purpose is Sir.”Inspector Morris was bewitched by some fluff on his blue serge trousers brushed it aside and looked straight into Taylor’s bloodshot eyes and returned his pipe to his mouth. “I mean I know observation is a Detectives watchword and everything Sir, but I mean these are only observations of mine and you weren’t taking notes so it’s not like we can submit it to a impartial test now is it?” Taylor’s thumb flicked at the edge of a nostril, a nervous habit. Morris sucked on his pipe and stared at the ground. He then released his stored smoke adding to the already thick atmosphere of the compartment. Grey eyebrows where raised slightly and then lowered.White clouds tripped across blue sky.“I mean I suppose it’s just good practice but of limited practical value isn’t it, Sir” The Inspector smiled slightly and scratched behind his left ear (which had impressive tufts sprouting from it,) with the stem of his pipe.“Well, I suppose it has made the journey go a little quicker Sir, no harm done hey.”The older man stood up opened the compartment window and knocked out his pipe in a rhythm which a skilled bandmaster would have recognised as the kettledrums on a Guard’s performance of ‘A British Grenadier.’ This however meant nothing to Taylor.“I tell you Sir, drives me sick all these County and small town forces calling on the Yard, Sir, Anyfink up call on the Yard. I blame Mrs Christie Sir. I mean it’s not like there not used to crime is it sir, poachers, thieving Dockers, what have you, they must have crime otherwise why have police forces? But know anyfink serious ‘Its call on the Yard’ and that’s only because of a shortage of Belgian private detectives isn’t it.” Taylor smiled at his own joke. Morris blew hard into the bowl of his pipe and blinked as errant remnants of his smoke flew about his face.”So anyway we have to come up here, no jellied Ells, funny accents, strange smells, Irish as thick as Kilburn and a pile of Chinks not out of place in Limehouse. I am mean as my old mother used to say, “You not going to learn to run if you can’t walk are ya,” if you see my meaning Sir. Sir?”“Taylor?” Morris’s voice was think and reedy rather like an unexpectedly woken professor of divinity. Not for nothing was he known as ‘The Whisperer’ on the Force.“Yes Sir?”“Shut up.” Taylor went to mediating on the darts night at the Rose and Crown in sullen silence. Morris returned to the fantasy that he was a Viking warrior chief laying waste to Mercia. A pleasant break from being a put out to grass Metropolitan Inspector packed off to assist a small northern force at the insistence of the local Council despite the protests of the local police. The Saxon princess he imagined seducing by the light of fired hamlet was a damn sight more tempting company than ‘Stinky’ Taylor.Morris and Taylor continued in these vain if private imaginative leaps of erotic and sporting prowess until the chain came to wheezing stop at a local station. The urgency of the case had lead to them being raised from their moribund marriage beds at two in the morning but had not lead to an express ticket, and this was one of many interruptions to their journey north. Nasal calls went out from stationmaster and guards as the engine impatiently hissed. The compartment was invaded by an odd pair to set sight upon in provincial northern England. The door swung open a mahogany walking stick poked into the compartment like a suspicious proboscis sniffing the air. A gnarled mahogany hand followed it. A tweed suit then launched into the compartment covering a tawny lean man with developing jowls. An enormous turbaned gentleman with magnificent whiskers wearing a matching suit followed, took in the compartment through sharp, bright eyes. Taylor grunted a ‘Good Morning.’ He had no truck with Orientals since that spot of trouble he picked up off a dusky maiden in the fleshpots of Cairo.The Sikh sat in silence. The gentleman with the grey whiskers rested his walking stick cross his lap like a swagger stick and nodded at both Policemen.“Good Morning, Sirs.” He voice was thick as a mangrove swamp and as deep.“Please excuse my companion, Lal Singh, he is mute.”“I just thought he was a ignorant darkie,” said Taylor reaching for his cigarette case in his breast pocket. Taylor did not see the walking stick move. Morris did not see the walking stick move. But move it did. How else did it’s tip suddenly appear hovering over Taylor’s Adam’s apple which nervously bobbed.“Mute but not deaf, Sergeant Taylor, Mute but not deaf.” Beneath busy brows the stranger kept a bead on the Sergeant.Morris slowly began to slip his hand to the knuckle-duster he’d kept in his trouser pocket since his wartime with Special Branch.“Forgive my precipitous action, but rather a gesture with a stick than Mr Singh as you shall refer to him from now on, tearing your wooden head from your stooped shoulders. Inspector Morris, no foolishness with the metal knuckles, if we are to working together I’d rather our association did not begin with a brawl.” Taylor and Morris exchanged glances. The stick returned to its previous position in a leisurely manner.“Working together?” stuttered Taylor. He hand found purchase on the cigarette case and slowly brought into the carriage’s light.“I am Archibald Godfrey Wakely, Mr Singh and I have been asked to assist you with the Kenton murder investigation – by the Foreign Office and with the Home Secretary’s approval. There are complications.” Singh furnished letters for the two police officers from inside his tweed jacket. Morris and Taylor both took in the curved knife and .455 Webley self-loading that nestled in opposing armpits.The printed words confirmed everything the old India hand had said. They crouched under red letters ‘Most Secret’ and perched above the command ‘Burn upon reading.’“Right Sir Archibald, no offence Mr Singh” said Taylor puffing a cigarette and tearing his letter into small strips for better burning. “Anything to share with us?”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 2Hitting the BeachBy Matt Farr“I mean, it’s all Bollocks, innit sir?” The remainder of the train journey had not improved Taylor’s mood. Sir Archibald had remained cryptic about his presence, insisting that he was here merely to observe, for the moment, whilst his hulking companion had sat there, Taylor was sure, attempting to menace him with his chilling, silent gaze. “All this Top Secret stuff, it’s a load of nonsense. If this is government business, what are we here for? And if it ain’t, what’re him and the darkie here for?” They were crossing a series of low, grass-topped dunes toward a cluster of figures in the distance. From the station they had travelled by police car, along empty, early-morning roads to the beach, from where Wakely and Singh and struck out over the rough terrain with only a simple “follow me” from the older man. “Thinking on it, there’s no reason for us to be dragged up here anyway. The locals should be able to handle a murder, and like I say, if it’s all ‘Top Secret’ then I’m sure they’re more than capable of hanging around looking official. It’s all a waste of my time!...oh, and yours, sir.”The sun was still low in the sky, and a low sea mist was hanging over the dunes, refusing to be moved by the thin breeze coming off the sea. Ahead of them a cluster of figures, two constables, and four men in suits, stood in a loose knot around a figure lying on the beach. A small rowboat stood forlornly on the shore, a mute witness to the night’s drama. “But anyway, if we are going to be acting for the Government it could be exciting eh? We could be hunting spies and communists and all sorts! You know sir, stuff like that ‘What are the Forty-Nine Steps?’” “Thirty-nine.”The sergeant paused, his monologue broken. “Sir?”“Thirty-nine Steps, Taylor. Thirty-nine. If you must drivel on in such a manner you could at least do so accurately.” Inspector Morris sighed. Despite himself, the only thing he could think of, scanning the beach, was that it would make a good landing for a longboat, and at the moment a good spot of butchery and pillage would probably make him a good deal more relaxed. Whether he should start with the obtuse Ministry man ahead of him or his depressingly talkative Sergeant was currently beyond him. Ahead of him Sir Archibald reached the body, and turned towards the two policemen. “Right then. If you’d like to start your investigation, I’ll observe for the moment and assist you if it becomes necessary.” he barked. “This is Sergeant Harrison, he’ll fill you in on what the local constabulary have discovered so far”One of the suited men stepped forward. Morris noted that of the other three, one was stood near the rowboat, apparently gazing out to sea, whilst the others were stood with Sir Archibald, apart from the uniformed constables. More Ministry men, he thought. Harrison reached out, and shook the hands of the two Scotland Yard officers. He seemed nervous, glancing towards the other men there, and the body, as he stood back and fumbled for a notebook from his coat pocket. Taylor muttered something that Morris didn’t catch, although it was probably derogatory, but before he could question it, Harrison began a stumbling report. “Erm….right, sir. The body was discovered about eleven last night, by a constable who was investigating reports of gunfire on the beach. The report was about 10, sir, but it took a while to get out here”“Thought you’d wait until the shooters had left more like” muttered Taylor. Morris shot him a stern gaze. “Just ignore Taylor, Harrison, his mouth isn’t always connected to his brain, I’m afraid”“Yes sir, well….the constable got here, and found the body, did a quick search for ID and found a key for a boarding house. Not far from here, really, ‘Daleview’, it’s called. We got the landlady out here, so confirm his identity, a Mrs Merriweather, and she confirmed his name as James Kenton. Said he’d been boarding with her for about a week. He had a passport and so on with him too, which say the same. So we’re pretty sure it’s him. sir.”Harrison shifted his feet in the sand, and looked around again, flipping pages in his notebook. “Anyway, so we checked his room, and it was empty ‘cept for a few clothes and the like, and then Mrs Merriweather, she says that he’d left a phone number with her, in case of emergencies, so we rang that, and this gentleman,” he gestured at one of the men standing next to Wakely, who nodded to him, “Mr Wilson, he came over and said he worked for the government and we shouldn’t do anything else until someone came up to take over from us. So that’s what we did, sir”Morris thanked Harrison, and stepped forward to survey the body. Kenton had been hit in the chest, a shotgun, by the look of it and pretty close range too. Thrown backwards, he lay spread-eagled out on the beach, in a thick smear of blood that had drained toward the sea, turning the sand black. The corpses face registered shock and pain, eyes staring at the grey skies, as if searching for the reasons for their owner’s sudden demise. Next to the body was a large black leather bag, opened and empty. “Anything in that?” “No sir, just like we found it”“There was though. Something heavy, too, judging by the indentation left in the sand. Anything else on the body?”“Just some papers sir. Passport, a few receipts, train ticket, and this sir, not sure what to make of it”Harrison pulled out a small bag from a pocket, containing Kenton’s papers. He handed Morris a carefully folded piece of paper, typed both sides in small print. Morris read it carefully, a slightly puzzled look on his face, and passed it to Taylor. “Here you go Sergeant, this looks more like your sort of thing”The Sergeant took the paper, and started to read…“…Sank deeper in the bowels of the earth. Grasping my torch tighter I descended after him, following the distant flickering of torchlight far ahead. The passageway was dry and straight at first, heading towards the depths with a surety that was unsettling, as if I were walking downwards along the barrel of great rock-hewn cannon, ages old. But the warnings of Wilmarth’s manuscript were soon proved to be true, as the track suddenly and without warning gave beneath my feet, sending me sprawling downwards into the dark abyss below. The torch lay shattered by my feet, and I was now aware that I had fallen into some subterranean grotto, illuminated only by the phosphorescent mould growing on the walls, which afforded enough light for me to survey my new surroundings. The slope above me, my only hope of escape back to the warmth and security of the surface, was too steep to climb, and covered in loose rocks liable to fall at the touch of the unwary. The cavern itself was tall and cavernous, a cathedral of primeval rock, of which I stood by its high altar gazing into immeasurable darkness. In the distance I could hear dripping water, and the haunting whistle of wind moving through the myriad stalagmites and stalactites that to my mind were the pillars of this ancient church. Of Harpenden there was no sign. I started to move down the aisle towards the sound of water. Dimly lit towers of rock formed gargantuan choir stalls to either side, and a pulpit of jutting basalt stood clear of the walls, ready to preach sermons to the stalls of witless fungi and careless insects that filled the body of the cathedral. The ground underfoot became first damp, and then carpeted in mosses, and an increasingly musty smell permeated the air. As I crossed the floor, beneath the towering, dimly-lit vaults, an oppressive air fell upon me. It was as if a millennia of silence had carved some malignant presence into the very naked rock, and the dim whistling ahead started to prey on mind as I grew closer to it’s unseen source.At the back of the cathedral I reached the font, an upwelling of water from the rock, running off through a water-carved cutting in rock towards a crypt under this natural edifice. A cool breeze ran up though the passage, promising freedom from this dank place, but still the ethereal whistling came from ahead, deeper in the recesses of the cavern. For a moment I was torn. Should I continue to press on into the blackness? The vastness seemed to call to me, urging me to strike out and explore the full horrible beauty of this natural parody of man’s greatest works. But I remembered my purpose, stiffened my resolve, and disdaining further exploration of this strange, antediluvian place, I descended into the passage, towards the crypt. . The passage was small and slippery, with such treacherous footing that I was only able to avoid a repeat of my plunge into the cathedral by bracing my aching body against the slime covered walls. It opened out into a crypt, illuminated only by the same moulds as the cavern above, with the water flow running into a wide and shallow lake, the contents of which filled me with wonder and horror! For facing me was a mass of riveted iron, pitted and rusted from age, a ship, here, in this place! Impossible! Shaken, I felt my way around the hull until I found the anchor chain, embedded in the wall of the crypt. Here I climbed to the deck, and crossed the rotting wooden planking to the wheelhouse. Of the unfortunate crew there was no sign, but I was able to arm myself with a rifle strewn carelessly on the deck. My mind was reeling from my discovery. To find an ironclad here? I could not conceive of how or why it could be. That the papers I had read spoke of lost treasures in the caves was incredible enough, but to find a ship buried here seemed impossible. But here I stood at the wheelhouse, deep beneath the world, surrounded by darkness and…..”“Well?” said Morris. “Recognise it from your excursions into the literary world?” “No Sir, but maybe it’s not published? Looks like it was done on a typewriter to me. And there was more sir, at least a page before and after. And it’s a bit heavy, don’t you think, all this rock cathedral malarkey! And a ship in a cave? It’s like pirate stories from when I was kid! Anyway, you don’t think he was killed cos he was writing a book do you? Or cos his stole one?”“No Sergeant, I don’t. But I was hoping you’d notice the writing in the margins, rather than subjecting it to literary criticism.”Taylor looked back at the paper, turned it sideways, and read out load. “‘Collier. 86 Kitchener Street’. Not a lot of help, sir. How many Kitchener Streets can there be? Anyway, seems pretty straightforward to me. We’ve got a good ID on this guy, he was carrying a bag from this row boat, and got shot. Probably by smugglers sir. Maybe he wanted more money, or they didn’t want to pay him. Probably Irish, to boot. They have a falling out, kill Kenton, take the stuff he was smuggling, leave us with the body. I don’t see what they need us for sir. No problem, really.”“But there is a problem, Sergeant Taylor”The voice came from the man by the rowboat, deep and steady as he turned to face the policemen. Taylor stepped back in surprise, and even the normally stoic Morris gasped at the clear identity of the man who faced them. “This man cannot possibly be James Kenton. Because I am.” Back to Table of ContentsChapter 3SleepingBy Tracey HobsonJoan was relieved to close her bedroom door at the end of another long day. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly 1am, she'd have to be up again in four hours, those men can certainly drink ... "I'll have to remember to buy more Whiskey tomorrow". It was three weeks now since the massed forces of the Metropolitan police had descended on the town and she really wasn't sure why she had been attracted to the idea of running a boarding house. "How many full-English breakfasts can one woman serve, before they send her off for an eternal rest alongside the other loonies?" ... And the new maid is more trouble than she's worth ... how she secured references from the Blackpool Grosvenor, without learning the correct way to set a table and fold a bed sheet was anybody's guess, but she didn't get by working there, that was for sure. Very pretty, there was no denying that, but useless. Mind you, there weren't a lot of options in this town, the last three maids all disappeared off with their respective 'gentlemen' to live in big cities, without so much as a days notice ... three tatty notes, what sort of notice is that, not one of them had the decency to come and let her know they were leaving, but then living unmarried with some lothario isn't very decent either! I suppose it gets round that old Merriweather's a bit of a soft touch and they all start doing what they like. Well, they'll see how much of a soft touch when their money runs out and they need a job and can't get one without a reference ... "funny, I'd have expected to hear from Maria by now, but she'll turn up eventually and then she'll be sorry."Joan decided that it was time she started to lay the foundations of a new improved Merriweather's Boarding House. Charlotte had some explaining to do ... where did that reference come from and how the hell did she expect to keep her job if she couldn't tell the difference between right and left? Slipping on her housecoat Joan set off for the maids room. "She'll pay for cleaning that Inspectors overcoat too, that'll teach her not to leave bowls of soup on the reception desk, while she chats to the local postman!"There didn't seem to be a light on in Charlotte's room. Joan wondered if she should leave it for tonight and tackle her in the morning. She paused at the door undecided. That was when she noticed the glint of light in the pile of the carpet. She picked up the object and discovered that it was a pendant on a chain, quite delicate, looked like real gold, unusual design ... a bit like an animals head with horns, no features or anything, smooth, but a bit like a bulls head. Joan was surprised that Charlotte could afford something like this, it was obviously expensive, but the maid was the only person who had reason to come this far down in the house, her room was the last room in the house. Then in horror Joan started to realise that what she was looking at was probably evidence that she was employing a thief ... this belongs to one of the guests and tomorrow the house is going to add to it's notoriety with a case of thieving from the guests!That was it. No matter what the time was, Joan was going to have it out with her. This house was her livelihood and she wasn't going to have some little tramp destroy it for her. She knocked sharply on the door and called out the girl's name. No answer, Joan knocked again. Still nothing. Furious she pulled the master key from her pocket - "ignore me will you, we'll see about that!" She pushed open the door and saw ... no-one. Charlotte's uniform hung neatly on the hook next to her bed ... no sign of a coat ... or outdoor shoes. Joan started in amazement, she'd only said "Goodnight" to the girl fifteen minutes earlier. The room had no window ... "well, she gets it for free, she can hardly expect a sea view!" There was no way she could have got past her employers room and out of the entrance door without being noticed, years of catching guests attempting to leave without paying had proved that. Where on Earth could she be?Joan wondered if she should wake that nice Sergeant Taylor, but what could she say? As much as she disliked the idea, she didn't really have the right to insist that her maid stayed in when she wasn't working. Providing she was on time for work in the morning (fat chance of that, going out at 1am) and didn't bring anyone back to the house or go and get herself pregnant there wasn't really much that Joan could say. But how could she have got out without being noticed? Was this the first time, or had she been doing it ever since she arrived? Who was she meeting ... Joan's memory switched for an instant to the three previous maids and she groaned. Standing here wasn't going to do any good, Joan decided to call it a night and confront the girl after breakfast (always assuming she made it to breakfast) in the morning.Slipping the pendant in her pocket, she walked back to her room wondering what had happened to this place over the last few months? It was thirteen years since she arrived here with the late Mr Merriweather and her life had been settled - reassuringly, almost boringly, predictable for twelve and a half of those years, but the last six months had been one crisis after another. First there was the infestation, she never did find out what those creatures were, but she was extremely grateful to Mr Sutton for getting rid of them ... "considering Maria had been in the room where they were nesting, she was very calm about the whole thing". Then there were the mysterious disappearing maids, three in as many months, it gave a very bad impression of her as an employer, although none of them were a great loss to the Guest House trade. Evelyn had seemed the type, if Joan was honest, but she really hadn't expected it of Hannah. Then, of course, there was the murder ... "and they still haven't found out who that poor man was, or who should pay his bill!" The real Kenton had proved to be rather more dashing than his deceased impostor and Joan found herself thinking that it was fortunate that they'd got the wrong man, but immediately felt guilty and asked the Lord to forgive her for such an uncharitable thought.It had been an exhausting three weeks and Joan realised that she was probably over-reacting because she was exhausted. She wondered what that strange noise was ... she'd noticed it a lot over the last few months but couldn't recall hearing it at all over the years ... a sort of a muffled bell sound, but it didn't seem to come from anywhere, it was just there, quietly echoing around the building. Mind you, it could just have been her imagination, or that thing that Mr Phillips the Church Organist had, he hears noise all the time.Joan closed her bedroom door and set her mind firmly on sleep. Only three and a half hours now she groaned, as her head hit the pillow.Back to Table of ContentsChapter 4Thirsty WorkBy Stephen Cowley“Telegram for you sir.” Sergeant Taylor announced as he walked up to the booth Inspector Morris taken habitually taken to occupying in the Eastern Breeze during the three weeks they’d been in town. “From the yard. Got sent to the boarding house, struck of luck I’d gone back to change my shoes otherwise it’d still be waiting for you.”“Charlotte all right?” Morris said in his characteristic hushed tones.“No point trying to put anything past you is there sir, she says she’s fine. Seemed a little tired to me, but she claimed not. Trying to work it round to asking her to a dance tomorrow, but not having a lot of luck. Seems interested enough but sometime the topic never comes up, although that postman won’t leave her alone. Anyway I think you’re in with Mrs Merriweather, she’s taken a shine to you and no mistake. Extra sausage in the morning. Good place to retire to this Sir, get out of the smoke, get your feet under the table and no mistake. Widow like that, own business and all.”“Sergeant.” The gentle comment was enough to break Morris in full flow and guiltily he remembered to fish the telegram out of his pocket. The inspectors look was stormy enough to silence even the Sergeant’s endless ramblings while he swiftly read the telegram.“I requested that after three weeks of making no headway at all in this case we were reassigned back down to London.” He explained as he read.“Or they get Sir bloody Archibald to start being talkative.” His voice just raised above its perpetual whisper for the seconds it took to fire off the profanity, before dropping back down again. He crumpled the telegram in his hand.“However, they say they are pleased with the progress made, which is none, and we are to continue assisting the local constabulary. Who are very glad to have use up here, because they can blame the fact that were no nearer an answer despite the fact that without us they’d have even less of a clue.” The tension in his voice was clearly audible, a rare occasion.“Well sir it’s not been a total waste. It’s rattled that bleeding Yank a lot and that’s got to be a good thing, arrogant bastards the lot of them. Did I tell you about the time I arrested two yanks as drunks and they told me……”His voice trailed off, the years together meant that Sergeant Taylor had finally learned when the inspector really was not in the mood. Muttering something about did he want one Taylor made his way to the bar and returned with a pint. He sat down opposite the inspector, pulling the chair close into the table.“I am afraid we’re going to have to recap what we already know Sergeant. See if we’ve missed anything vital.” “Again sir?” The silence from across the table was his only answer. “All right, well at least I’ve got my pint.” And with a sip of his beer Taylor pulled his regulation note book out of his pocket and started talking.“Well Kenton jnr as I like to call him, is almost a perfect ringer for the yank. If he had an identical twin, that’s who I’d say we found on the beach. But he don’t so it’s ain’t that. He giving away about quarter of an Inch in height to the real thing but that ain't noticeable unless your address is Baker Street, the faces are near enough perfect. But you say that if you look at them side by side there are a few differences.”“It’s around the eyes, the lines there are different.” The words drifted across the table like a feather.“If you say so. But frankly even with you pointing them out, they look the same to me. The teeth are the same, including the filings even including a badly done repair to one of them. But our dead blokes got no wisdom teeth while Kenton’s got two left. They’ve both got appendix scars, but jnr’s is about an inch longer. They’ve both got a silly bloody tattoo of a butter churn on the upper right arm, but dead blokes is frankly much better done then Kenton, and can I just say an Irish man would have more sense then getting it done by a guy you’d been drinking with all day. Then we get onto the odds on favourite to start shining some light in this mystery- Fingerprints. But of course against all the odds they’re similar. Not the same, but not that different. On a partial print, bad print or not checking that hard you'd think they were a match. But look hard enough and there's just enough difference to tell 'um apart. Fair shook the forensic guy and no mistake. Oh and the dead bloke, he’s missing half his chest, dead give away to me sir.” His long deep drink tried vainly to fill the abyss his quip had left behind.“But basically you’d have to be his mother, lover or pigging dentist to spot the difference. Possessions on the body, one key, passport which is an incredibly good forgery, train ticket from London to here, receipts, most useless but one being for hire of a safe deposit box but nothing identifying where it is, leather bag and one weird bit of writing. Oddly no wallet or money of any sort. But if this is a plain robbery then I’m a Chinaman. Room at the boarding house had clothes and toiletries and that’s about it. Certainly no diary, address book, not even a bundle of mysterious typed literature of a fantastic sort. However we did find lots of Mr. Kenton favourite brand of American cigarette in his room, which our fella had been smoking heavily enough in the last few days judging my the ash trays and the comments from Charlotte. But not actually on the body. Actual cause of death a bit of a mystery, well more of a toss up really between the two bullets in his lungs or the shotgun blast in his back. However the sawbones says that the shotgun blast in the front after they’d flipped him over was totally unnecessary. Somebody was really making sure Kenton Jnr was very very dead.”“Or hiding something.” The inspector interjected.Taylor took another long pull at his drink to refresh his throat. The inspector had settled back in his seat, steepled his fingers together and had his eyes shut.“No real idea on the number of shooters. Sand way to messed up by locals for that, plus we think they might have tried to muddy the water, as it where. We’ve got two bullets from the body and two dug out of a small nearby boat. But given the angle of fire, most that missed are now rusting in Davey Jones’ locker. Nearby residents claim to have heard anywhere between three bangs and that panicky old bat claims to have heard over thirty. However a retired game keeper says he heard ten distinct shoats, followed by two shot gun blasts one after another, so I reckon he’s good for the number of shoots fired. He also says he saw a big car heading away at speed right afterwards down the coast but while his hearings still good his eye sights gone and don’t have any details. But if that car was the only car, which is a pretty big but I’ve got to say then were looking at no more then seven shooters tops. Which don’t tell use anything really. But I’d guess five shooters at two shots a piece from the revolvers, but I’d not even bet your money on that one. No shell casing were found so were saying the barkers were revolvers and the calibre was .455, so could have been old war surplus and theirs no shortage of them about.” ?The Sergeant paused for a second staring into his note book.“There are according to the post office over five hundred Kitchener Streets across Britain, there are four hundred and five of them that have a number eighty six, the rest being too short or just having the odd numbers. One hundred and twenty two of these in this part of the world. There are however none of them in this bleeding town, nor the ones directly around use. And nor can we find one occupied by a man called Collier as far as we can tell. Without anything to go on it ain’t worth randomly knocking on doors just in case the murders panic. They ain’t the panicking sort. All of which adds up to about no bloody use to me and you.”“So…” The inspector gently drew the word out.“So, we started looking at what Jnr had been doing in his week. Now were hampered by the toff telling use that what Mr. Kenton does for a living is ‘Not germane to the investigations.” The last was said in a passable imitation of Sir Archibald. Morris opened one eye before closing it again.“Which has got to be the biggest pile of nonsense I’ve ever heard. ‘Cause whatever Kenton does is going to be right at the heart of this mystery otherwise, why have this jnr? Anyway so Kenton swears blind he’s never been to this town before. Which means that anybody who knows him, don’t know him but does know jnr. Or that’s what you said. So we start wandering round town with a picture of Mr. Kenton asking people if they’ve ever seen him and don’t it seem like Mr. Kenton jnr’s a regular little hermit as everybody swears blind they’ve never seen him.”“Aside…..”“Aside from the chippie round the corner which said he was regular customer Mrs Merriweather being a breakfast person and not doing evening meals, even if she does serve drinks without a license. But we’ll let that one slide eh sir…?” The wink was totally lost on the contemplative inspector.“Where we get a small oddity, jnr comes in regular as clockwork for a portion of fish and chips while he’s here. But Mr Kenton says he ain’t fond of fish. Which seems a weird mistake for an impersonator who you say even dresses on the same side as Kenton. Plus the landlady said she prefers this Mr. Kenton, more dashing and his accents not as bad, which again is odd. So while they look like peas in a pod, they don’t act it. Anyway while everybody swore blind that they never seen him before you say that a group in the Turks Head, near the chinks, look quite uncomfortable with use waving the picture around, so we send in Kenton the next night. And sure enough they do know him.” The Sergeant pats his pockets before extracting a fag and sparking a match. A long breath and he starts again, fag slowly burning down in his right hand.?“There still don’t want to talk about anything as soon as they realise were connected to Kenton. So they’re up to something illegal, and Kenton jnr was involved in it. So we start leaning on them and before you know it they’re talking, but not about what we want to hear. They’ve got a cast iron alibi for the night of the murder, as they were all locked up in the cells off Liverpool docks after getting drunk and getting in a fight. All happened the night before but they’d not got out by the night of the murder. But one of them lets slips something about meant to be meeting Kenton that night and how it was lucky for Kenton, otherwise he’d of got caught up in that murder business. ‘Cause were sitting on the news that the dead body’s a ringer for a yank, and just calling him unidentified corpse. Of course Mrs. Merriweather knows as she told use it was Kenton on the beach. But I think you scared her into keep this to her self.” A deep draw and gentle sip.“Anyway, more pressure, promise that we don’t give a monkeys, which we don’t never said anything about the local boys did we sir. Opium smuggling, ain’t a big ring, but got approached by Kenton who seemed to know enough and dropped enough names and seemed to be legit, well not legit if you follow me. Trying to make a small buy of very high quality stuff and willing to pay big. Turns out they were meant to be providing a sample on that beach that night so Kenton could reassure him self of the quality and make the trade later. So we’ve got a reason why he was on the beach that night but it don’t help use at all do it?” A final drew at cigarette, its life burned away well Taylor talked, before hurling it into an ashtray.“And now at the end after three weeks of investigation we get to our mysterious letter. Which is odd, even by the standards of this mad old case. Yesterday morning, hand delivered, typed envelope, typed insides. Telling use to be at the sight of murder that night from midnight to see something that would interest use and would explain why the 2nd barrel was fired. The grisly nature of this guys death was something we’d kept secret so who ever sent it know something. So out we troop, me, you, Harrison and a couple of his boys, all carrying barkers. And spend four perishing hours freezing our self and see a grand total of bugger all.”“You know my theory. Something was going on last night, something we were not meant to see and we were being distracted. It’s very simple.” The voice was calm and confident.“Well the only thing they distracted me from seeing was the inside of my eyelids frankly sir, and all that does is make me cranky and means that who ever did this, when I get hold of them taking a dive down some bloody stairs.” The last was delivered with considerable enthusiasm and the final dregs of a pint.“You’d not of got much sleep anyway, since as I was letting the rest of the squad go back to London since we’ve finished the leg work and door knocking, they stayed up well past midnight drinking heavily. Which our esteemed land lady would never normally do as its lights by ten normally.”“Well that’s the lot sir and it’s a single pinter. Which given the oddities of the case is a clear condemnation of what we've found out as anything I've heard. I’m going for another, you want one?” A grunted replay and a pause well Taylor brought two pints and starred down the impressive cleavage of the barmaid. He pushed the inspector’s pint over to him“All of which helps me not a single thing, your recollection is superb, as always, but in this case I had not forgotten anything. Not a single thing we have uncovered has thrown any light on what to me are some of the most puzzling incident of this case, which may seem like a sideline to many, but I think of vital importance.” He left it hanging, inviting the Sergeant to ask.“What’s that then?” Never a man to refuse an invitation“Timing Sergeant, timing. The shooting was reported at 10 PM, police got to the scene at 11 PM, roused Mrs Merriweather from her deep sleep with repeated knocking at 11.30, well she’s shaken awake by Charlotte she identified the body by midnight. Overcome with shock she drank several medicinal brandies, while a bobby looked after her. Eventually she remembered the number and so the Sergeant phoned the number at more of less precisely 1 o’clock. It was instantly answered, the gentlemen who answered said he knows Mr. Kenton and if something had happened to him he’d be right over. Those government gentlemen, and the real Mr Kenton arrived at 4 o’clock in the morning. Mr Kenton not showing his face, till he pulls his stunt with us, then they flash their ministry ID’s and explain representatives of Scotland Yard are on there way. We arrive having taken the first train from London, getting here just passed eight o’clock in the morning, to find the body’s not been moved, the suns barely up and sea mist on the ground. What time were you roused from your slumbers sergeant?”“Not sure sir.”“I am, I was woken up at 1.27 am. Being generous, I’m going to call that 40 minutes after the call was made, as nobody is entirely sure when the call was made. In that time, these spooks were able to ring our boss and get to him to agree to send use up. Since our boss would never let use go without a damn good reason, I’m betting that his instruction came from the police commissioner. Forty minutes to get this much pressure, to get use on a train north is frankly a miracle. And enough pressure that our boss gave us five uniforms for leg work as soon as we asked, and getting that on our patch would have been a fight. Out of London, when there’s locals about? Add to that Sir bloody Archibald.”“What about Archibald?”“The document he had. He boarded our unusually busy night train at a station two hours south of here. A gentleman of his status happens to be in the area when something this odd goes off. Unlikely, but the strange happens. But that he’s carrying documents, signed and sealed, naming use, naming the case. Documents available only in London. So the how in heavens name did they managed to get these signed by the Home Secretary himself and up to Archibald within the five hours they had?”Taylor sat looking dumbly as his inspector, poured forth in uncharacteristic verbosity.“There’s more. Someone rings you up and tells you Kenton’s dead, you phone some people, they phone some people but at some point somebody phones somebody who’s sitting with Kenton. It’s a mistake, it’s case of mistaken identify clearly since Kenton is sitting with you. Call off the dogs, don’t wake up the home secretary, don’t get spooks moving. But not this time, this had to have been kicked this into top gear the minute Kenton jnr was found dead, at the very least. And it don’t let up for a second when Kenton is found moving around.” With unaccustomed vigor Morris started cleaning his pipe.“And finally there’s the contact phone number Mrs. Merriweather had. Why did the impostor leave a number that contacted people connected to the real Kenton? Without that we might never have found out he was an impostor. That’s to say if he is an impostor! Aside from the words of the ministry men, we’ve not got a single scrap of evidence to confirm that an impostor died on that beach. We could have spent three weeks with an impostor while Kenton’s gone to an unmarked grave, and we’d never know!”And in a giant gulp he drained half his pint, while the Sergeant sat shell-shocked.“To quote you, and not the immortal bard. It’s all bollocks, innit.”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 5The KeyBy Stuart StansfieldJoan Merriweather raised herself for a moment, irritatedly pushed a stray strand of hair back into place, and gladly took the opportunity to straighten out an aching knee. As quiet as a mouse, with those over emphasised motions of “silence” that people are wont to make, she took a sip of tea. She’d have let out a sigh if she hadn’t remembered just in time, and comically slapped her hand over her mouth. Rebuked, refreshed, and disturbances to her concentration momentarily removed, she eased herself back down into her vantage point.She was kneeling by the side door to the Drawing Room in the Dale View, her ear tightly pressed against the keyhole. A pang of guilt stabbed at her heart for a second. She hadn’t meant to pry – God forbid! – but with all that shouting, well…. her best glassware was in there! And that Sir Archibald, a respectable gent, make no mistake, but locking the doors to the room… and asking for all the keys!Her mind drifted for a second. If only there’d still been a Mr. Merriweather she mused, thinking of how useful it would be to have a man about the house at times like these... It’s a shame that Inspector Morris and the “other” guests don’t get on she thought, and caught herself blushing slightly. Pushing such thoughts to the back of her mind, she resumed her watch, absentmindedly running that strange gold chain and pendant through her fingers as she did so… “Commendable deduction, Sergeant Taylor,” Sir Archibald commented tonelessly, his watery grey eyes examining every aspect of Taylor’s nervous face.Taylor coughed uncomfortably, then wiped his brow with his handkerchief. His palms were sweaty, his shirt felt damp. For the last ten minutes he’d explained, in a confused, awkward mumble, all that he and Inspector Morris had discussed in the local earlier that day. Things had come to a head. Something was wrong with the whole bloody thing here in New Brighton, and it was time to straighten it out. Or at least that was the plan…He felt like a fool. Hearing the boss comprehensively outline the inconsistencies in the case is one thing, trying to explain it to three hardnosed, “seen it all before you poor little sod” types is another altogether. Wakely hadn’t said anything, just stared at him emotionlessly with those glistening old eyes of his. Wilson, the Ministry man, well, had been as animated as a rock, occasionally nodding along in a patronising, “understanding” manner whenever he caught Taylor’s eye. Morris, well the boss did what he always bloody well did, left the awkward stuff to poor old Taylor.It had started angrily at first; shouts, accusations, Christ he’d almost whopped that arrogant bastard of a Yank! Would have seen to him good-style as well if the bloody boss hadn’t stopped it. ‘Like to see you step into my East End boozer, Kenton, you little…“But I presume, and please do not be offended, Sergeant Taylor,” Sir Archibald continued, snapping Taylor out of his reverie, “that these are largely Inspector Morris’ deductions, am I correct?”Taylor nodded slowly. The five of them were positioned around the small Dale View drawing room. The last vestiges of the day were disappearing in a cloudy sunset. It was warm still, a sluggish and humid end to an unnaturally hot day, which wasn’t helping Taylor keep relaxed at this precise moment in time. The window was open, and gave a fine view over the coastline, framed by the banded pastel hues of the magenta, lilac and orange, but there was little breeze to give respite from the heat. Kenton leaned near the window, feverishly smoking those foul Camels of his, paying more attention to the comings and goings along the seafront than the issue at hand. He was a well-kept man, lithe and fit for his thirty or forty odd years. He was dressed in an old linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his mid forearms, and a pair of slacks, held up by braces. Occasionally he idly ran a hand through his wavy brown hair.Wilson sat nonchalantly in a chair. The Ministry man was of medium height, with thinning brown hair; standard, well cut blue pinstripe suit. He had Oxbridge written all over him, Taylor thought. A self-assuredness that came across in his every movement and (sparse) word. As likely to quote Thucydides or Plutarch as anything remotely useful to the case. Maybe he meant to appear benignly helpful, but to Taylor he just came across a self-important, condescending sod.Sir Archibald, wearing an old tweed suit, leaned against an mahogany cabinet, cradling a glass of malt. He looked tired. And with the tiredness came his increasingly choleric temper. Of his man, the Sikh Lal Singh, there was no sign. Inspector Morris was sitting in an old rocking chair by the fire, puffing gently on his pipe. The pungent pipe smoke merged with that escaping the fire, creating a slightly dense ambience of wood smoke and Mild Black Cavendish. The inspector’s eyes were closed, his fingers steepled before his face; a sight Taylor had seen a thousand or more times in the past.Taylor finally broke. “So? Aren’t you going to say anything?!”Sir Archibald guffawed, a laugh which soon gave way to a painful cough. He shook away Wilson’s helping hand. Needless to say, Morris and Taylor didn’t budge. Wilson sat back down. “It is not pertinent for us to reveal all the details of the case…yet… Sergeant Taylor,” Wilson stated, “but suffice to say, I think I can enlighten you a little…”Taylor sat upright in his chair. His tongue was dry; a nervous twitch had developed in his cheek. Wilson continued: “You seem to think this is a cover-up of some kind. In some ways it is, but not of the type you think. Tell me Sergeant Taylor, look at the equation. Why don’t we send you back? What do we gain by keeping you here, stoking your suspicions? What do we gain by staying here? Are we here just to keep you here?”“I’ve got bloody better things to do for a start!” the old India hand commented, before letting out a short wheezing cough.Wilson smiled sycophantically and continued. “Trust me, we will all need your help and advice… when the time comes. Yes, your release had been pre-sanctioned. The documents were ready; we had foreseen such an eventuality. Admittedly, the circumstances are more curious than even we anticipated…”“You are both here for a reason,” Sir Archibald interrupted. “You both possess, shall I say, a certain mental fortitude…”“The reason we have not acted, indeed why we have waited, is because we are at a momentary loss,” Wilson added. “I am sure you will understand the situation, we must not move too soon lest we stir our prey into flying their nest. There is still something here in New Brighton which interests them. Something which they will stop at nothing to get. Kenton,” he checked himself, “the man who appeared to be Kenton, was just a preliminary. They seek something more here…”“For the detriment of all Western Civilisation!” Sir Archibald, his whiskers bristling, thrust his walking stick forcefully towards Taylor.“… something that we are convinced they will seek soon…”“Yes, yes, quite soon!” the old man prodded his walking stick against the ground with great intensity.“… no matter how dangerous it may be, or the police presence. That’s why we remain here, under the pretence of inactivity. A bickering, worn out mission; they will see our apparent confusion, think us weak, and act.”“And we’ll be ready for them!” Wakely finished, determinedly.Taylor had listened intently. It seemed, however, that both men were using a lot of words to say very little. “What, you mean like those Chinese lot and their mates near the Turks Head?” Taylor asked.Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps… yes, quite possibly, but maybe they are not… Involved, as minions, perhaps; our first link, but maybe they are not the true villains we seek…” He didn’t seem altogether sure.“Do not underestimate the capacity of your Chinaman for malevolence and violence!” Sir Archibald interjected forcefully.Taylor looked across at Morris. He seemed to be snoring gently… “But what about Kenton? His double? Who’s behind that?” A quick glance was exchanged between Wilson and Sir Archibald. Both looked towards Kenton, but the American was still staring out at the sunset. Inspector Morris, eyes still closed, abruptly broke the silence.“Mr. James Kenton, born in Boston, July 14th, 1897. Travelled to France in 1914. Joined the 2e regiment de marche of the 1er étranger… the French Foreign Legion, sergeant… and ultimately the regiment de marche de la Légion étrangère. Highly decorated: Legion of Honour, Croix de Guerre. Mentioned in dispatches twice. Fought with distinction at Hill 140 and Hill 119 in Artois, Belloy-en-Santerre and Aubérive. Joined the American army in 1917. Again, fought with distinction throughout the remainder of the war. Then, things become hazy. An outstanding warrant for his arrest in Belgium. Surete has basic information on record. Scotland Yard has a file on record, but it’s been pulled.” Inspector Morris looked at his partially stunned companions, and banged the dottle out of his finished pipe. “I’ve been a policeman for many years; you’re not the only one who can play the ‘contact game’, Sir Archibald.”The old India veteran lowered himself into his chair with a soft groan. “That, gentlemen, is why you are here. Resourcefulness. Perseverance. A willingness not to immediately take things at their base appearance. And…though it is being tried now… a modicum of patience.” Sir Archibald raised his glass to his lips, and drained the last vestiges of Scotch in a solid gulp. “Tell, me Sergeant Taylor, are you aware of the case involving the murder of Madame du Saliér?” Sir Archibald asked, almost nonchalantly, as he poured himself another finger of malt from the tableside decanter.“Sort of,” Taylor stammered. “Quite famous really… brutal murder of this high-class French prostitute in London… during the war, I think.” He show a quick glance towards Morris, his eyebrow raised in a Why the hell is he asking me? look, and was surprised to see Morris, eyes open and alert, staring fixedly at Sir Archibald, the colour rising in his cheeks. “Unsolved,” Taylor added helpfully, by now distinctly confused with the affair.Sir Archibald smiled. “Not quite.”“I beg your pardon?”“You see, Sergeant Taylor, the case of the murder of Madame du Saliér was solved, wasn't it Inspector Morris?” the old man continued, and turned his head slowly, his gaze resting on the Inspector. Morris remained silent for a few long heartbeats, his eyes never leaving those of Sir Archibald.“Make your damn point.” Morris' voice was hardly more than a whisper, but it conveyed all the gravitas it needed. Sir Archibald placed his glass down gently.“My point, Inspector Morris, is that you solved the case. Special Branch was called in, and after some trials and tribulations, you identified the prime suspect. All evidence seemed to imply an open and shut case. A commendable piece of police work, if I may say so, but unfortunately you never gained the plaudits you earned. Am I correct?” Sir Archibald raised a bushy eyebrow in query. Morris remained silent, not moving his eyes from the old man's face. Taylor didn't think he'd even blinked.“Let me recap for the benefit of Sergeant Taylor here. Special Branch found that all evidence pointed to a single criminal. His alibi was demonstrated to be wholly false, her blood was found on his discarded clothes and the one reliable witness gave an excellent description. It turned out that this man was an aristocrat, a European of considerable standing, a Graf von Rabenstein, if I'm correct?” Sir Archibald said, turning towards Wilson. The ministerial man nodded, almost imperceptibly; Sir Archibald continued. “Von Rabenstein, you see, Sergeant, was an Austrian, and a prominent one at that. A talented diplomat and great friend of the Kaiser-und-K?nig of Austria-Hungary…”“But we were at war with the bloody Austrians!” Taylor snapped, his patience with this charade lessening by the minute. Sir Archibald let out an exasperated sigh.“Exactly! Rabenstein was here in secret! He was our means to communicate with the Austrian emperor… Sergeant Taylor, at that time we were secretly trying to pull Austria-Hungary out of the War!” Taylor looked shocked.“Now, Sergeant, what would happen to our fragile peace negotiations if it was made common knowledge that an Austrian aristocrat, here in secret, the close friend of the Emperor, had been arrested and charged for the brutal murder of a London whore?”Taylor said nothing. Instead he looked limply at his Inspector. “So you kept it quiet.”“Yes, Sergeant Taylor. He kept it quiet. Nothing came of those negotiations immediately, admittedly, but I can assure you that the nation had much to be thankful to Inspector Morris for. Above all else, gentlemen, above your professional abilities, one key factor is crucial in your participation in this case: your ability to keep a secret.” Sir Archibald smoothed his whiskers with a wrinkled finger. A brief silence descended.“So,” stated Morris finally, refilling his pipe, “we just wait?”“Yes, Inspector Morris. I think that puts it really rather well,” Sir Archibald shrugged, and moved to pour himself another Scotch. He stopped abruptly as a muffled scream sounded from the side door:“Why you heathen brute! Get… mmphhhh…”Within a second the door was thrown open, its lock broken, its panels cracked. Mrs Merriweather was pushed bodily into the room, her upper arm firmly in the grasp of that hulking Sikh, Lal Singh’s hand. The Sikh’s face was fury itself, Mrs. Merriweather’s a mix of consternation and righteous indignation…“What the hell…” Taylor leapt out of his chair. Morris stirred himself up, his hands grabbing the rocking chair arms.Singh turned to Sir Archibald, pointed to his ear, and then to the broken door. Wakely nodded grimly. “Now, Mrs. Merriweather, I appreciate your hospitality, but when, on a matter of importance to the Crown, I ask for privacy, I damn well expect that my wishes be adhered to!” “I… I… just wanted to see if you wanted some tea! I’m no… I mean…” Joan Merriweather spluttered.“Stop wittering woman! And don’t try to hide your perfidy, damn ye,” Sir Archibald’s old weathered face was contorted in rage, his gnarled hand holding his wavering walking stick just in front of Mrs. Merriweather’s nose. “How dare you speak to me like that!” Mrs Merriweather reactions would have made a Shaolin monk proud: her open-handed slap sent Sir Archibald staggering backwards. Then the scene devolved into chaos… Lal Singh roughly flung her to the floor in reply. Mrs. Merriweather fell with a shriek, half caught by the lunging Inspector Morris. Taylor leapt from his chair, arm coiled to strike the impudent native, but he suddenly sprawled incongruously to the floor, tripping over the outstretched leg of Kenton. Wilson, panicking, reached for nearby telephone, and frantically called for the operator… A striking, neighing laugh brought the whole scene to a standstill. Sir Archibald was straining to rise, using his walking stick to push himself up from his knees. Panting, he turned his suddenly ebullient features on his companions. “We’ve done it! This, my friends, is the key our adversaries need! Haha!” The old man, amidst scenes of violence and hate, a minute ago choleric and intemperate to the extreme, started to bizarrely dance a small jig on the spot.Everyone, except Wilson, looked on in dumb confusion. Sir Archibald was holding some small item which seemed to glitter in the radiant firelight. Inspector Morris cautiously moved forward, and Sir Archibald placed the item in the inspector’s outstretched hand. Closer inspection showed it to be a fine gold chain, with an attached pendant, also seemingly gold. The pendant was in the shape of what appeared to be a featureless bull’s head. Mrs. Merriweather gasped, and checked her apron pocket. She made to speak, but no words would come out.Sir Archibald smiled again.“And now, gentlemen, the waiting is nearly over… now they come to us…”It is hard for anyone standout amongst the polyglot multitudes of Zanzibar, but the tall Frenchman sitting in the dockside café managed this and more. Alongside the Africans, Asians, Arabians and even the Europeans, Alphonse D’Huberres marked himself out as something special. He was no sunburnt, sweating ros-bif, with his ludicrous topee-hat and public school manners. No fat, be-fezzed trader. No, there was something different about him. It wasn’t so much his appearance, as his bearing: an inherent arrogance to his character, which came across in his every movement and word. This was a man who knew his purpose, and woe betide them that came between the two of them.If anything, he was most alike the men he was seated with now, in this small dingy café among the maze-like dockside streets of the Stone Town. They were all Arabs, with maybe a few savage-looking Indians amongst them (descendants of Baluchis, no doubt). Several of them shared the same crucial characteristic as Alphonse D’Huberres. They had the eyes of a killer.D’Huberres was tall and well built, with large, rough hands that looked to have seen a few brawls in his forty or so years. He was dressed in a new beige suit, which was cut too small, accentuating the size of his powerful hands and feet, and stretched tight across his barrel-like chest. A white pith helmet lay on the small wicker table beside him, along with a burnished brass hookah pipe, some fruit and a small cup of harsh Arabian coffee.But it was his face that was most distinctive. It was longer than most, defined by a protuberant, cleft square chin, which jutted forcefully out from his face, emphasising his proud, arrogant demeanour. A prominent Gallic nose was met at the base by a thick black moustache. His wide mouth held full, yellow teeth. A thick shock of wavy black hair framed his well-tanned, pockmarked face, whips of grey showing at the sides and on his sideburns.The café was sited on a little promontory, from where he could glance down into the teeming harbour. The sun glinted off the placid turquoise lagoon, rendering it in an iridescent, mirror-like quality. Thousands of small craft traversed the inland sea, mostly fishing boats, incongruous against the lone, grey hulk of the British frigate, its ensign flapping in the wind.Beyond the lagoon, to the west, the gentle aquamarine waves of the Indian Ocean appeared to dance as they caught the sun, shimmering like a field of diamonds. Countless dhows bobbed gently on the waves, their bleached white sails reflecting the radiant sun in a majestic display. Beyond, on the hazy horizon, you could just make out the African coast.The monsoon was blowing from the southwest and brought a hint of reality to the picturesque scene. The stenches of excrement, tar, slowly rotting fish and the unwashed masses, all of them wafted up from the harbour to his little retreat. A sudden cross-breeze brought the pungent aroma of cloves from the hillside plantations above him, adding another feature to the heady mix which assaulted his olfactory senses.D’Huberres took nature’s hint. The Frenchman pulled a small pewter cigarette case out of his pocket. Clove cigarettes. He’d picked up the taste whilst he’d been in the east. He lighted up, and revelled in the sweet smoke he inhaled. His mouth gradually became pleasantly numbed. A small grey-furred monkey sidled up from one of the other tables, and climbed onto a nearby chair, eyes flicking between the fruit on the table and D’Huberres in mute appeal. The monkey was clever – it didn’t dare a theft.The Frenchman smiled, and cut a small piece of a banana for the creature. He followed by breathing a strong plume of sickly sweet smoke in the monkey’s white-highlighted face. The monkey squealed and shot off, taking the hint. No more fruit today.He smoked peacefully for a moment, taking in the grandeur that surrounded him. Further down the coast, along the milky-white sandy beaches, he could see the surf breaking in its gentle rhythm. The incessant chatter of port filled his ears: Swahili, Arabic, Gujerati, English and a score other tongues and dialects. A donkey-cart carrying mangoes had been overloaded, and tipped backwards, lifting the poor bemused beast into the air. A ragged group of Arabs were pulling at the donkey’s legs in an effort get the animal down, shouting and arguing as they worked to no avail. Nearby hawkers were peddling rapidly rotting, dried shark meat at poorly covered stalls. A young African boy, carrying a couple of large melons, approached the café, got one look at the clientele, and rapidly left. The monkey followed him down the road.The Frenchman took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced. Christ! Even the crap he’d been served in Algeria wasn’t as bad as this. He checked his watch. Swiss. He permitted himself a small, rare smile, as he remembered the day he got it. July 4th: Belloy-en-Santerre. Mon Dieu, how can you forget such a day! Crawling through mud and human offal to take some little village in the Somme campaign. Luckily he’d crawled past Lt. Steiner, a rotund little Swiss fellow, who had a rather nice timepiece. Well he didn’t really need it anymore, not with his stomach eviscerated. July 4th: American Independence Day. A frown crossed his face.The watch struck two. The Frenchman looked down the path towards the Asian quarter. Just in time.Slowly, striding out of the heat haze as if in a dream, a lone figure approached. He easily negotiated the bustling masses; they seemed to simply melt away at his approach. The very picture of him was striking: an Asian man, physically unimposing, but wearing a three-piece cream-white suit, well fitted, with two-tone brown and white leather shoes. A Panama lay at a slightly rakish angle on his head, a gold watch chain could be seen glinting from his waistcoat in the sun. The man in the white suit came closer, walking with timely, languid strides. He seemed to move with an almost effeminate grace, his right hand swinging a walking cane lazily in time with his step. A battered leather dispatch cased was held in the left. The Asian approached the table. The Frenchman examined him intently. He was short, not more than five and half feet in height, and of slim build; quite definitely Indian, but from where? Clean-shaven: there goes most of the north… Bombay? Certainly not Madrassi or from the greater Carnatic or Ceylon, his skin coloration was too light.“Bonjour, Monsieur D’Huberres,” the Indian greeted the Frenchman without looking up; his voice soft and cultured, representative of Oxford rather than the Malabar Coast. He carefully took off his hat, and placed it on the table.The Indian reached into his jacket pocket and removed an ancient, battered leather spectacles case. He took out an old pair of wire-framed glasses, and affixed them carefully to his ears. Finally he looked up, and accosted D’Huberres with a serpentile stare with his strangely European grey-blue eyes. He locked his gaze with the Frenchman’s for a good five seconds, before finally uttering: “Kenton is alive.”No other three words could have brought more shock to Alphonse D’Huberres than those the Indian uttered. “What?!”“I am not in the habit of repeating myself,” the Indian countered frostily. “The American is alive.” He brushed an annoyingly persistent fly from his cheek.“But it was him! The appendix scar, passport, tattoo, my men checked!” D’Huberres was strangely flustered. “You saw him? Up close? Personally? You spoke with him?” the Indian persisted. There was a curious sibilance to his voice, disconcerting to all who heard it. His present companion was no exception…D’Huberres retorted with a snort: “Of course I damn well didn’t! The game would have been up in a second! He’d have recognised me in an instant…”“Aaahhh… of course. You served together didn’t you? In France, during the War? Comrades in arms…” The Indian didn’t even try and hide the facetious condescension from his voice in his last three words.D’Huberres ignored him. “Yes, we served together. In the Legion. I was his officer. We met up again after the war. Smuggling. Holland. Belgium. Then… we had a disagreement.” The Indian’s eyes bored into him, encouraging him to tell more. “Money, women, the standard things…” the Frenchman muttered.The Indian giggled with glee, slapping the table, upsetting the coffee.D’Huberres ignored him. “Anyway, if he wasn’t Kenton, who the hell was he? And why did he have the box? The whole thing was simple. Kenton’s experienced in this kind of work, knows the territory; has the connections. He takes the risks, gets the box for us, and then we kill him…”The Indian readjusted his spectacles. “Yes, the box. Therein lies another problem. An item is missing.” The Indian opened his dispatch case and pulled out a tattered, yellowing sheaf of papers. D’Huberres recognised them: the Wilmarth Manuscript. The Indian found the page he was looking for, pushed it across the table. “The girl. She lost the pendant…”“Pendant?” D’Huberres didn’t understand.“That, Monsieur D’Huberres,” the Indian pointed at an etching reproduced on the page, “the one she stole off of our…‘impostor.’” The picture showed a pendant, quite delicate but not overly small. It was crafted in the shape of what of what appeared to be a bull’s head, but featureless. D’Huberres shuddered at the recognition. A single word was scribbled next to the etching. Orichalcum.The Indian produced another sheet, with a drawing of a large rectangular box, the very object that had been recovered from the beach. D’Huberres had only seen it once. The Indian pointed with a long, indolent finger at the lock mechanism, in the otherwise featureless object, a small depression in the shape of the pendant…D’Huberres laughed, Oh how he laughed! A long throaty laugh, tears running down his cheeks. “You’ve got the box,” he forced out, finally, “make a bloody cast!”“It’s not as simple as that you fool!” the Indian hissed, his hand grasping D’Huberres’ like a talon, his fingers digging into his flesh. D’Huberres, with all his strength, couldn’t draw his hand away. The Indian held firm. “You know what we’re dealing with here, Frenchman…”“Get your damn hand off of me.” D’Huberres held the Indian’s gaze with his steely own. His other hand moved towards his jacket pocket.“Be careful, Monsieur D’Huberres,” the Indian smiled, and motioned around him. D’Huberres turned around. All eyes in the café were on him. Eyes bent on murder. The sun glinted on more than one half-drawn dagger.“We need the pendant before we can progress further, Monsieur D’Huberres. The girl will have difficulty in getting it. The British government have become involved. We need a professional. You will be travelling ahead of schedule.” The Indian let go of D’Huberres’ hand. He gathered his papers together, placing them back in his case, and put away his spectacles. Rising he placed the Panama back on his head. “Au revoir, Monsieur D’Huberres.”“Merde.”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 6MovementsWritten by Dr. Creedence Bustopher JambalayoThe sunset over the Irish Sea had the unmistakable appearance of salmon soufflé. Low rolling clouds stretched as far the horizon, mottled with gentle shadows, and all suffused with a rosy glow in the last few minutes of daylight. Two men stood together on the seafront, gazing into the distance.“Not a bad night, all in all.” Taylor had remarkably little to say this evening. The sea seemed to pacify him.Inspector Morris was equally transfixed as he murmured a vague agreement under his breath. The two men both stood straight, each in the same repose - hands clasped behind the back, raincoats open to the mild breeze. Only the occasional cry of the gulls and the steady fall of waves in the distance marked the passage of time.Their reverie was disturbed by the sound of an approaching automobile. Taylor glanced sideways, and his trance was broken.“Aye, aye. Looks like they've picked up a motor from somewhere. Chrysler, isn't it? Nice one!”The navy blue car drew up to the pavement, and the rear window wound down to reveal Sir Archibald's cheerful countenance. “Glad you could make it, chaps. I expect you'll be wondering where we're going?” Sir Archibald opened the rear door and beckoned Taylor and Morris inside. The sikh Lal Singh was in the driver's compartment, inscrutable as ever. Yet, as he glanced out, for just a moment the sea captured his soul too.“Tonight, gentlemen, I invite you to share my passion for India! Drive on, Mr Singh.”Charlotte finished tidying the last of the towels in the linen cupboard. She looked at the cuckoo clock across the landing. It was just about a quarter to eight. She unfastened the apron from around her waist, and hung it carelessly over her arm. She took her hairband away with one hand and ran the fingers of the other through her dark hair. Such a tiring day it's been, she thought to herself, and began to stroll across to her own room. She paused at the top of the stairs when she heard the sound from the hallway below.Peering downwards through the banister, she saw that Kenton was checking himself in the hallway's large mirror. Charlotte watched him tie the belt of his taupe coloured raincoat. On the floor at his feet was a small canvas suitcase, cheap and worn. He delved into a deep pocket, and drew out a revolver. He turned it over in his hands, checking it, and then slipped it back inside. Reaching across to the stand, he took a dark grey Trilby and put it over his head. It had to be adjusted a couple of times before Kenton seemed satisfied with it.The last thing he did before leaving was retrieve something from the small shelf at the base of the mirror's frame. Charlotte gasped when she noticed. The pendant! He's taking the pendant!Kenton reached down and heaved up the suitcase, and without looking back, walked out of Daleview's front door.“The Bengal Lancer is the best kept secret in the whole of the north-west,” announced Sir Archibald as the waiter was seating them at a sumptuously dressed table in the middle of the restaurant. “Three years ago the only place for Indian cuisine over here was the excellent Veeraswamy's in Piccadilly. Since then a handful more have opened up, but as far as I know this is the only one outside of London.”Almost as soon as they were made comfortable, a large plate appeared bearing some enormous and frightfully strange looking crackers. It was accompanied by half a dozen small pots of condiments the likes of which Inspector Morris had never seen before. Sir Archibald addressed the waiter, a young coloured lad, in a foreign language. Hindustani most likely, thought Morris. The fellow nodded, and disappeared behind an ornately carved wooden screen which seemed to depict an elephant dancing on top of a monstrous head. The woodwork must have taken a knock once upon a time because one of the elephant's tusks had broken away. This was just the sort of detail Morris was in the habit of noting.“Well,” continued Sir Archibald, “you can imagine my delight at finding this little place. I've been coming here weekly since our arrival, to ascertain the quality, and now I can confidently share with you a meal of the highest standards, the likes of which I used to enjoy daily in the Punjab. Ah, here's young Wilson. Managed to find the place easily enough? Good. Sit yourself down, man.”An elderly coloured gentleman took away the ministry man's camelskin coat and trilby. No sooner was he seated than a set of menus was brought along. Morris began casting his eye around the rest of the room. He'd caught a whiff of a strange perfume as soon as they'd arrived, and now he could see that it was coming from a small smouldering stick, positioned by a large statue near the window. It was an enormous monkey with a golden hat upon his head. A vase of white flowers was next to it. There were patrons at about a dozen other tables. Most of them had chosen some kind of stew. Many of the diners had the appearance of being well travelled, and some were clearly ex-servicemen. Three of the tables only had a single occupier, eating alone, which Morris thought was unusual. Over by the window, at the table next to the monkey, were a young couple who looked a little out of place. Another young waiter was assisting them with their menus. The waiters were all dressed in a manner which was clearly Indian, but not so ridiculous as Morris had expected from seeing photos and illustrations. Just a rather plainly cut kind of jerkin without lapels, and embroidered simply about the front. He bit into a cracker which had a surprisingly nice peppery taste to it. Taylor seemed to have taken a great interest in the pickles, and was already getting crumbs everywhere.Morris' attention was caught by Sir Archibald saying something to him. “Inspector Morris? Yes, as I was saying, I don't imagine you'll be familiar with the dishes? Perhaps I could take the liberty of ordering something on your behalf?”“Mmmph. Actually,” Taylor was interrupting, “I thought I'd try this Madras thing, since it's the only place I've heard of. And lamb sounds like the right thing, too.”Sir Archibald and Lal Singh looked at each other for a moment, and then the host came back to Taylor. “A fine choice, indeed. Now then...”“I suppose I'll just have the same then,” said Morris. Mr Wilson soon agreed. Sir Archibald summoned the elderly gentleman who had taken Wilson's coat earlier. They spoke for a short while, swapping between English and Hindustani. Evidently this man was the proprietor, with whom Sir Archibald had become well acquainted recently. Their order was placed, with Lal Singh pointing to something on his menu, whilst Sir Archibald also requested a number of side dishes.The young waiter returned with two large jugs of a rather pale and yellow looking beer. Behind him was another young man bearing two jugs of milk. The conversation was dominated by Sir Archibald, explaining the pickles to Taylor and Wilson. Morris was quiet, only half paying attention. The burning stick was making him keen for a smoke on his pipe, but that would have to wait. The sikh said nothing, of course.Before long the main course arrived, to the delight of their host and the bewilderment of Wilson, who couldn't believe the number of dishes involved. Lal Singh poured everyone some of the milky drink, which turned out to be a kind of yoghurt, with an unusual salty taste. All were eager to start on the food.Only Inspector Morris noticed that one of the lone diners, a Frenchman to judge by the quiet voice with which he spoke to the young waiter, was leaving via the kitchens at the rear...Kenton threw his case down onto the deck, and clambered onto the boat. He knew this was gonna be risky, but it was damn cocky too, and that made it feel like a dare worth taking. But what on earth was he thinking about, taking the police boat? He kept telling himself it was a crazy idea, and they'd have his balls for this one.Well, only if they catch me, he reminded himself. He been over it in his head a zillion times. Aside from the lifeboat, this had to be the fastest boat here. And that means they'll have a harder time following him, at least to begin with. By the time the cops have got it together to call the Navy in, he'd be long gone. With Archibald reminiscing with his stomach and the rest of them out of the way, it might even be the morning before the Ministry cotton onto him.Anyway, sure as heck wasn't any point hanging around in this crappy little burg. What the hell did they think they could gain, doing nothing but wait? They must know by now that they got the wrong man, so the onus was on yours truly to get a move on. See how far they can be led astray. It has to be even more important, now it turned out that the damn schmuck couldn't even be relied upon to be carrying the pendant when he got stiffed! Let 'em have the pendant, that was the plan. It was theirs, for all the good it would do them.The sky was beginning to cloud over more heavily. Could even be rain. Good thing, too. Make it easier to slip out undetected. He checked over the engines, looked around the cabin. Everything was fine. The fuel tank would be kept full, of course, another good thing about this boat. He untied the ropes from the moorings on the jetty and tossed them inside carelessly.He was alerted by the sound of footsteps on the jetty. A woman's heels by the sound of it, and in a hurry too. He looked up to see Charlotte running towards him, having some trouble with the boardwalk. Trust a dame to be wearing the wrong kinda shoes. What the heck was she doing here? She'd be about to mess things up, and no mistaking.“Jack! You're leaving!” She was panting, out of breath. She was still wearing her uniform, and had a bag just crammed full of God-knows-what. Must have seen him leave and come running after him straight away. That's all he needed.“Ten outta ten, sweetie. So what?”“You can't leave! Ah... hh. I need the pendant! They'll be coming for me!” A light drizzle was starting to fill the air.“Yeah? Who will? Huh, who's that gonna be?” Kenton should've known. A dumb-ass girl like her was just their kind of target. Easy to dupe, or lean on if you had to. Fed up with her crappy little life, head full of Hollywood dreams. Ah, there's nothin' wrong with her a hundred dollars wouldn't fix. “You let 'em get to ya, huh? What did they say they'd do for you, huh? Well you're on your own, honey. I got no business helpin' a sneak like you.”“Jack! Please! I've been stupid!” wailed Charlotte. She had tears in her eyes, tears for fear. “I don't know what this is about anymore. I think they're here already. You've got to help me!”“No way. Now get lost before someone hears your cryin'.” Kenton turned back in to face the boat.“I'm afraid, Monsieur Kenton, that somebody already has.” What the heck? Kenton knew that voice! He wheeled his heels on the deck of the boat, looked through the darkness to see the man he knew he'd been destined meet again.“This beer ain't half bad, even if it does look like catpiss,” offered Taylor. “Nice and cooling. Can't say the same for this white stuff though. Tastes like bad medicine.”“I assure you,” began Sir Archibald, correcting his colleague's hasty assessment, “That the salted taste of the lassi is a fine accompaniment to mellow the warmth of the curry. But you are correct about the beer. The Indian pale ales are most refreshing, and are even more agreeable in the heat of the subcontinent. I'm glad you find it to your taste. Shall I have Ranjit bring some more?”“I have to say,” interjected Wilson, “That you are correct in talking about the warmth of the curry. Compared to the dishes I've taken in Istanbul, this seems to be perhaps overspiced. Are all of the dishes cooked this way?”“Oh, yes. It aids the digestion you know,” explained Sir Archibald.The sikh smiled.D'Huberres was standing at the far end the boardwalk, by the quay. He held a pistol out in front of him, polished and gleaming. Dressed in a handsome grey suit, his burgundy silk tie was offset by expensive Italian shoes. Needless to say, they were gleaming too. He was well dined and ready to kill.“Get on the boat, sweetheart, and stay behind me.” Dammit, but she was just too pretty to take a bullet. Kenton cursed himself as she stumbled onto the deck, causing the boat to sway. He kept his balance, and never let his eyes off the gun.The Frenchman started to walk slowly along the jetty, his heels clicking sharply in the cool night air. “Don't worry, madamoiselle. I feel certain that Monsieur Kenton and I can negotiate without recourse to any unseemly commotion. That would be to both of our advantage, wouldn't it, Jack?”Kenton could do little right now. He kept his hands out to his side, in the clear. Any hasty moves right now could be fatal. All he could do was hope the frenchie was right about a parlay. Aw, who was he trying to fool? D’Huberres was a psycho, and there's nothing he'd like better than to plug a man like Kenton.“You see, Jack, the girl is a part of this now. We need her knowledge.” The Frenchman spoke with a voice which offered trust, but the pistol in his hand and the gleam in his eye said otherwise. “Madamoiselle, we know you have the pendant. If you value your life you will tell me where you have it. I can be very forgiving. So then, what do you say?”“Jack, I-” said Charlotte, her voice breaking. Kenton motioned her backwards.“Be quiet back there. And get down.” Keep him talking for now, thought Kenton. A man with a voice like that just loves to. If he keeps talking, maybe the guard will slip. “The girl's got nothing to do with this. There's no reason to harm her. Anyway she doesn't have the pendant anymore. I do.”“Ah, Jack, old friend. Always looking to the ladies, eh? Always forgetting yourself when your heart gets in the way. And always it betrays you. So. You have the pendant. Give it to me.”“Well it's right here in my pocket.” Kenton moved his hands to his raincoat, which was getting a little damp now. D'Huberres eyes flickered, and he motioned with the pistol. Just a little too hasty. Slowly he moved his hands to his deep pockets... “Lets see now, it must be in the right- oh, no, here it is in the left.”Had D’Huberres noticed? As Kenton slowly withdrew the chain from his left pocket, his right hand remained in his coat, where it found the revolver.The Frenchman's eyes followed the American's hand as it lifted the golden chain and let the weighty trinket hang loosely, swinging a little to and fro. A smile came across D’Huberres' face. Now he had what he needed, he could do what he had been longing for years. His hand started to perspire a little, but his control of the pistol needed to be unerring. A single bullet placed carefully would be more satisfying than a barrage of shots. A killing so rare as this should be savored.Kenton let the chain swing a little wider.“Looks like I've left myself no choice,” declared Kenton, bitter resignation showing through in his voice. “Catch!”He let go of the chain and let it fly in the direction of D’Huberres. But he placed it just right, and the pendant fell short, splashing into the water with a deep kerplunk! D'Huberres' eyes followed it. Kenton moved in that instant and fired a shot straight through the cloth of his coat. It took his opponent in the thigh, and the Frenchman fell to the boards with a startled cry of pain.Kenton threw Charlotte and himself to the floor of the boat. Quickly he crawled to gun up the engine, freeing his revolver from the coat as he went. D'Huberres was lying on the jetty, but still had his pistol held firmly and was turning himself over for a shot in the boat's direction. The engines started to rumble as the wounded man propped his hand and took aim. A shot rang out from the pier and a bullet smashed into the dashboard in the cabin.Kenton moved to the edge of the vessel and fired over the edge. He had a smaller target now, but the advantage of cover. The boat was moving away from the moorings. Both men fired another shot each, but none struck home. Kenton took aim again, and this time managed to put a bullet in his opponent's shoulder. The pistol flew out of D’Huberres’ hand and landed in the drink.“Merde!” cried the Frenchman as he thrashed on the wooden boards, blood dripping between them into the sea below.Kenton moved to the cabin and took the wheel and throttle. He took the police boat away from the town, running in the darkness without any lights. He looked out behind him to see D’Huberres staring down into the sea, cursing in french and crying about “La pendante!”. Hearing the sounds of approaching people from shoreside, D’Huberres had no choice but to slowly limp away into the blackness of the boathouses.There was a clicking noise as the catch on the bathroom door released. The sound of the toilet flushing ended with an abrupt gurgle from the cistern. Mr Wilson emerged, dressed in a set of light blue flannel pyjamas. His countenance suggested blissful relief; it was the face of man who knows that the worst must surely be over. Porterhouse college had never prepared him for a morning such as this. Taylor and Morris, both fully dressed, were waiting in the hallway to greet him. Morris glanced back from the clock just in time to catch his eye.“About bloody time! We've been waiting twenty minutes to get in there!” Morris and Taylor both started in the direction of the bathroom, and nearly collided crossing the threshold of that heavenly grotto. Both men turned their faces to each other, and Taylor graciously stepped back to allow the older man first call. He leaned back against the hallway wall. His shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to a further wait. “Sorry, inspector. After you.”“Yes, Sergeant. I insist,” said Morris as he took hold of the door. Mrs Merriweather was marching up the stairs, her slippered feet clumping on the carpet. Morris spotted her as he was standing in the doorway. “Oh, just a minute. Mrs Merriweather? When Mr Kenton comes down for breakfast, could you tell him I'll need a word with him? It's just that I might be in here some time.”“But that's what I came to tell you, inspector. Mr Kenton's gone. He left last night.”“What?” retorted Morris abruptly. “Why didn't you tell us earlier? I mean, where's he gone?”“I've no idea. He didn't say anything about where he was going. In fact, he didn't even bother to check out at all, leastways not properly.” Mrs Merriweather seemed a little put out by the morning's events, the inspector's brusqueness had put her on guard. Her own voice took on the matriarchal tone that the policemen had all come to fear. “He just left an envelope of money in my study, to cover the rent. Left his keys, too. I've only just discovered them. It's that useless girl's fault! She's been out all night you know! Didn't ask me for time off, oh no. Just left it up to me to do everything. I've had to be busy with the breakfasts. Cooking and serving them as well.”Morris had loosened his grip on the bathroom door. Taylor saw his chance. He quickly slipped behind the inspector's back, seized control of the handle and locked himself in. The door slammed into Morris' elbow as it shut.“Oi! I was just about to... Oh, sod it. Look, are you trying to tell me that Charlotte's missing too?” Morris started to move downstairs, ushering Mrs Merriweather in front of him.“Well, I wouldn't exactly say missing. It's not the first time she's done it. I'll be docking her wages and no mistake!” The landlady was indignant. This was just the kind of situation that brought her assertiveness to the fore.“Ahhh!!! Jeeeee-sus Chriiist!!!” Morris and Mrs Merriweather both looked up as the muffled cry came from inside the bathroom. The inspector waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head, and urged Mrs Merriweather downstairs. Just as they were approaching the dining room, the doorbell sounded loudly throughout the hallway of the Daleview guesthouse.“Oh good grief! Who on earth can that be at this time of morning? My wandering stop-out, I'll warrant!” Mrs Merriweather clumped off to answer the door, while Morris entered the dining room.Sir Archibald was at a table, tucking into an enormously full English breakfast. The mere sight of this sent the inspector's belly into a rolling lurch which threatened an unpleasant indiscretion. His sikh companion was relaxing in an armchair at the window, sipping tea.“Good morning to you, Inspector!” bellowed the old man heartily. “You're up rather later than usual. Is Sergeant Taylor going to be joining us?”Morris had regained his composure, but had to decline the invitation. “Not bloody likely, thanks to that coolie slophouse of yours!”“I say, that's a bit uncalled for!” The old man was disheartened by his colleague's frankness, but wasn't going to let it interfere with his breakfast. “You'll be fine once you get some porridge inside your stomach. Now, what's this I hear about Mr Kenton checking out?”Morris was about to give his answer when a rain-bedraggled constable from the local force appeared behind him. Apparently the fine weather of the previous evening had given way to rain in the morning. “Sir? There's been an incident.”Morris turned around. “Right, well you can tell us the details later. Just give us a summary for now and we'll deal with it when we can. It's just we're a little busy right now.”“Well, sir, this will in all likelihood interest you. You see, there was a shooting incident last night at the seafront. No direct witnesses, though. And our patrol boat's been stolen. We've already been onto the Admiralty about it.”“Ah... good.” The Flying Squad veteran was rather impressed by this unusual display of initiative in the local bobbies. It might have taken Morris an hour or so to think of the Navy.“There's another thing, sir, most irregular.” The constable seemed a bit nervous. “I-It's Mr Kenton, sir. He's missing.”“Yes, yes, we know that, constable.” The inspector's voice took on an air of condescension. “We gleaned as much when he didn't turn up for breakfast!”“Oh... er...,” the constable said falteringly. His face showed confusion for a few moments before he managed to continue. “No, sir. I mean the other Mr Kenton. The dead one. The body's gone missing from the morgue!”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 7The PolicemenBy Caroline CormackConfusion reigned for a moment. Sir Archibald Wakely was typically cryptic about the whole affair, muttering something about “They’re covering their tracks now.” Mrs Merriweather got all hysterical and started going on about zombies and body snatchers and all sorts of nonsense. Inspector Morris, in dire need of the toilet as he was, had no patience for such idiocy.“For God’s sake man! What are you talking about?”“The body." the young constable stammered. "It’s gone from the morgue.”“Well of course it bloody is. We buried it two weeks ago!”Everyone looked embarrassed at this, except for Lal Singh, who looked as impassive as ever. Wakely recovered quickly and tried to look as if he hadn’t been taken in by the Constable’s news. Mrs Merriweather busied herself collecting the dirty breakfast dishes and hurried out of the room. The poor young Constable had nowhere to go and just stood there looking at his shoes. Morris spotted a look on Wakely’s face like he was about to try to take over again, but Morris was sick of it and wanted to keep the momentum going in his direction.“Right, Constable, I’ll be having a chat with you about that later. First though, what’s this about a shooting on the sea front?”At that moment Taylor walked into the dining room, looking much the better for his bathroom trip.“Ah, Sergeant, perfect timing. Let the Constable here take you out to the sea front and talk you through what happened last night. I’ll join you just as soon as I’ve finished... my ablutions.”Taylor smirked, just a little. “Yes sir.”“So Taylor, what’s the word? Who’s this eye witness you’ve found?” Morris took a sip of his beer. It was much later that same day and they were sat in his favourite booth in the Eastern Breeze, far, he hoped, from the listening ears of the Ministry. In the end Morris had decided not to join Taylor out at the crime scene. He had some thinking to do. He was so furious that there’d been a gun fight while he was sat having that bloody meal with Sir Archibald and nobody had told him about it that he was worried he would take it out on the local Constabulary whom he was sure were just pawns in the larger game.Taylor had been out to the site and done the initial work, talking to the local constabulary taking notes, inspecting the crime scene. Morris had spent the morning hidden in his booth thinking about the future of the investigation. The Ministry’s shenanigans had gone too far, it was time to get this whole mess back onto a police footing. Ministry or no ministry, crimes were being committed here and that meant it was his bailiwick.“A local fisherman sir. Was just coming back in from sea when he heard shouting. Stayed around to listen but scarpered pretty sharpish when he heard shots being fired. I tracked him down myself when I saw the boat lying on the beach.”“Good work Taylor. Have you mentioned this to the Ministry or the local boys yet?”“No sir I thought I should report to you first. Although I’m sure they’ll figure it out for themselves like I did.”“Good lad. So, who do you reckon for stealing the boat?”“Kenton sir. Our eyewitness we’ve got recognised the photo, plus he heard the man we’re referring to as The Frenchman call him Monsieur Kenton. So that seems pretty conclusive.”“Mmm.” Morris muttered into his beer.“What was that sir?”“Oh nothing Taylor. I just get the feeling, the further we get into this, that nothing that has happened here is exactly what it seems. But you’re right, he ID’d the photo so for now we’ll take it on faith that it was Kenton in the boat. What else?”“He had Charlotte with him.”“Really?”“Yes sir. This is even more certain as the fisherman who saw it all actually knows Charlotte. So that’s a definite identification.”“And the Frenchman. Did we get a good description?”“Not really sir. He had his back to our witness for the encounter. But he did hear the Frenchman shout something about the pendant.”“Interesting.”“And we’re pretty sure it’s the Frenchman’s blood on the pier.”“What’s your impression of what went on last night?”“Well sir, I’d want to write up a time sheet to be certain of everything but as far as I can work it right now I’d say Kenton left the boarding house shortly after we all went to the restaurant. Charlotte followed him, for reasons that aren’t clear at the moment. Either he or she took the pendant with them and my money’s on Kenton for that one. Kenton steals the boat but Charlotte catches up with him before he can make a clean getaway. It’s around here that our fisherman came up to shore on the other side of the pier and heard Kenton and Charlotte shouting.”“What makes you think they didn’t arrive together?”“I suppose nothing sir. Although from what our man has reported they were fighting on the beach and Kenton didn’t sound very pleased to have her there.”“Fair enough. Continue.”“Well here’s where the Frenchman turns up. Starts shouting at Kenton. Our man can’t make out much of what he says because of the accent but reckoned he was after the pendant. And I think that’s reliable sir because it confused the heck out of the man. He couldn’t work out why they would be fighting about a pendant but he heard the word and remembered it. Shots are fired and our man hides realising this isn’t some three way lovers quarrel he’s listening into which he thought it was at first because of all the talk about the pendant.”“A fair assumption.”“Yes sir. There was one other thing he reported. I’m not sure how reliable it is sir but he says he heard a splash before the shots were fired. Like something had been thrown into the sea.”“Really? What time does our man reckon the Frenchie turned up?”“Maybe nine, nine-thirty. He’s not willing to swear on the time, says he can’t be sure.”“Hmm.” Morris took a long, thoughtful drink of his pint. “That’s very interesting. So, let’s see Sergeant how much you’ve learnt of what I’ve been trying to teach you. What can you tell me of the other guests in the Bengal Lancer last night?”“Last night sir?”“Yes Taylor. Come on, I’ve been teaching you to always observe your surroundings let’s see whether you’ve been putting it into practice.”“Well, there was us lot, obviously, once Wilson had turned up. Wonder why he didn’t travel with us sir?”“Indeed.” Inspector Morris was muttering into his beer again.“Most of the guests looked to me like locals. Married couples, the fella of whom has acquired a taste for the food while stationed in India and is dragging his wife out.”“Don’t romanticise it Taylor. Just state the facts.”“Well sir, the women tended to be picking at their food or just eating the crackers and breads.”“That’s better. Who else?”Taylor thought for a bit. Clearly trying to reconstruct the evening in his head. “The couple by the window!” he exclaimed.“What about them?”“Well they were much younger than all the rest for a start. And looked too well dressed to be local. And none of the other guests seemed to know them.”“Good.” Morris said approvingly. “Keep this up and the next round’s on me.”Taylor was pleased with the compliment and tried to dredge up more details from the night before. Although he sometimes moaned to his mates about his boss’ pedantic ways, he wasn’t without ambition and he’d heard that Morris was one of the best in his heyday and so he was trying to learn from the Inspector.“Well sir, I’m sure you’ll tell me off for romanticising again, but they didn’t look like a couple to me. They didn’t seem, well, comfortable with each other I suppose.”“No, you’re right. I thought so too. Who else was there?”“There was a few chaps eating alone. A couple of them looked like local men. Again I figured them for ex-services. Probably couldn’t talk their wives in to coming out with them, or maybe didn’t have wives to eat with. And there was that guy who left not long after we sat down. He didn’t look local either sir.”“Did you notice anything else about him?”“No sir. Sorry. That’s all I can remember.”“No matter Sergeant, you did well. You’ve earned your pint. Get me one as well and see if they can rustle us up some lunch. A ploughman's or something. I don’t know about you but I’m sticking to food I can recognise from now on. Ask them to start an account for us would you? I think we’re going to be staying in this town for a while and I like this pub, it’s private”Taylor knew what that meant. No Ministry men.Taylor returned to the table with the drinks. “So, what did I forget sir? What was it about the other diner?”“He was French.”Taylor almost spluttered his beer over the table. “Really sir. Do you think...?”“I think I want to have a chat with our eye witness, see if I can’t get a better description out of him. Is he still hereabouts?”“Yes sir. I told him not to put out to sea again today, not ‘til we’d finished with him. I’ve got his home address.”“Good work Taylor. I think I might stop by for a little chat after we’ve finished our lunches. I want you to pop into the local constabulary and find out a few things for me.“One, whether they’ve heard anything from the Admiralty. Two, whether any Frenchmen had registered with them or if they knew of any new foreigners visiting the town. Three, who reported to that poor young constable that the body of Kenton Jnr was missing from the morgue. That would have been a nice bit of mis-direction if I hadn’t put a stop to it pretty sharpish. “When you’ve done that, pop into the B&Bs along the sea front see if any of them have had any foreign guests staying recently, I wouldn’t expect them to know French from German necessarily but they’ll remember a foreigner. I want you doing all the legwork on this one Taylor. Keep the local Bobbies and the Ministry men out of this, keep it just between us Met boys for now eh?”“There was something else about last night sir.” Taylor said rather hesitantly after the barmaid had brought over their reassuringly recognisable ploughman’s lunches.“What was that Taylor?”“Well, leaving aside the general oddity around Sir Archibald inviting us out for dinner in the first place.”“You thought that too eh? Go on.”“Well, I know I pretended not to know anything about it last night but that was because Sir Archibald got my back up when he automatically assumed he’d have to order for everyone. But I’ve eaten curries before and none of them have ever made me that ill the next morning.”“Really?”“No sir. And it’s can’t just be a bad place because Sir Archibald says he eats there regularly and he’s not ill. And neither he nor that big Sikh were ill this morning. It just struck me as odd sir.”“Rightly so, Sergeant, rightly so. Okay Sergeant, I wasn’t going to mention this today but since you’ve obviously been thinking it yourself, I also thought there was something odd about the whole evening. There’s something about that couple that I feel I should know but don’t. I’m sure it’ll come to me eventually, probably just as I’m dropping off to sleep. These things usually do. I couldn’t understand why Sir Archibald suddenly decided to invite us out either, until the news about the gun play on the pier and James Kenton running off while we were out.”“You think we were kept out of the way sir?” Taylor’s eyes gleamed with excitement.“I think it’s possible. Same as I’m dubious about the announcement that Kenton Jnr’s body was missing from the morgue. I think that was meant to keep us busy as well.“The Ministry’s playing their own game. And that’s fine as far as it goes. They were up front about it, I’ll give them that. At least they never gave any pretence in being interested in anything but their own ends here. And I was willing to play along for a while but there’s a shooting on the pier at around ten o’clock last night and we’re not informed until breakfast the next day? That is taking it too far! They’re making a mockery of the Metropolitan police force and I for one have had enough! “You’re going to have to make a decision Sergeant, one side or the other. Because I’m sick of this! They’re playing us for fools. Inviting us out for a bloody curry so James Kenton can get away easily. And making us damnably ill to boot. And then keeping the news of a gunfight from us so this Frenchie could get away. I don’t know what they’re up to and I don’t care. I’ve had enough. Oh, I’m sure they’ve got their reasons. Probably damned good ones too but I’m just a city copper. I don’t pretend to understand politics and statesmanship. I understand murder though and somebody murdered Kenton Jnr and just because we don’t know who he was doesn’t mean he wasn’t some woman’s son who deserves to know what happened to him. National security be damned. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I don’t care about the rest of it, they can play silly buggers all they like but I’m a policeman and I was called in to solve a murder case. And that’s what I’m going to do.“However, I don’t expect you to do so as well. Going against them is almost certainly going to hurt your career. I’m close to retirement anyway so there’s not much they can do to me. Post me to a rural backwater to serve out my time is about the worst they can do and I wouldn’t mind that so much. My wife would be pleased if nothing else. She hates the city. But you, you’ve got your whole career ahead of you.”“But sir.” Taylor protested.“No, hear me out Sergeant. I won’t hold it against you if you decide to take the sensible course and play along but I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. I probably won’t be able to stop them covering it up, just like last time, but I’ll give it a damn good try. I don’t like their easy assumption that I’m just going to play along with their bloody games!”Taylor didn’t even need to take a moment to think about it. “I’m a police man, sir, not a Ministry hack. If that hurts my career then so be it.”“Good man Sergeant. But, please, if this all goes pear shaped, just tell ‘em you were following my orders all right? And remember, we need to tread carefully from now on. I don’t want the Ministry realising that we’re not playing their game any more. Make your enquiries seem casual, especially when you’re talking to that young constable from this morning”“Will do sir.” Taylor looked at the Inspector while they ate. During the course of their conversation over their drinks and meal, he had not once played with his pipe or sneered at Taylor for some incompetence or other. When he was speaking he seemed more fired up than Taylor had seen him before. He was speaking faster and wasn’t whispering any more. Taylor thought that he might be seeing a glimpse of the old Morris: the man old timers in the Yard still spoke of with respect; the great policeman who would let nothing get between him and the solving of a crime; whose sharp mind and memory for detail had caught many a criminal up short. ‘The Whisperer’, a washed up policeman with past glories but no future, was no more. ‘Mighty’ Morris was back, he thought with an inward smile. Watch out, Sir Archibald.Back to Table of ContentsChapter 8Muddy WatersBy KehaarWithin the wood of the Inspectors chair a bizarre eight legged little weevil of the type which had until recently infested Dale View instinctively noted the end of a discussion and scuttled out of the air into a whole in the pub’s mock wattle and daub wall. The vibration of the conversation was held on delicate membranes in it’s thorax and would provide interesting reading to it’s master, and creator.Frank Walshingham knew his quarry. The Frenchman had a red file and he’d studied it firmly before taking this assignment. The Frog’s standard procedure in this kind of situation was to make for his safe house. So it was that Walshingham found himself in the industrial hinterland stood in a door way of a dark cramped terraced house his hand on untraceable 9mm Steyr automatic section C had lifted off an Bulgarian agent in the War. Thank god it was school day so the street wasn’t filled with screaming kids. A few of the local women had given him a funny look but it wasn’t the area where anyone would talk to the ‘bizzies’. He’d took the ferry from Liverpool, for old times sake, last time he’d been on it he had been ducking behind armoured plate as it rammed German held Zeebrugge. That long time ago, ’18, he wasn’t that green idealistic Royal Marine anymore – nobody who’d seen the Zanzibar Directive could ever be innocent again.Walshingham’s time for contemplation was cut crucially short, and with a permanent end. The D’Huberres’s hardened hand had savate chopped him in neck before he realised what had happened. Then a swift grip of his gun hand and the Steyr was out of his grasp. But Walshingham had other problems as he fought to drag air through his crushed air pipe. The businesslike Alphonse shouldered the still dying Walshingham with a Gallic shrug and entered the rented terraced house.He kicked the terraced door shut behind him. Walshingham was thrown on the bare wooden floor issuing a death rattle. In fluid move he locked the door and then staggered to the sink. The thigh hurt like hell but had stopped bleeding and it was clean wound. The experimental vest had deflected the shoulder destined round but left a terrific bruise. The room was a bare box with a couple of old orange crates with the potential to act as a chair or table. Kneeling at the sink the French man raised a loose floorboard – the radio! The British spies had lifted his radio! He raised himself to his feet as with a screech of tires and the clop of hobnailed boots the door exploded inwards. Three thickset heavy browed figures in thick reefer jackets and flat caps burst in as he reached for the pistol. Following them was a refined looking man in a camel coat and a shorter fatter fussy looking man with a trim military moustache in a blue woollen suit. Both had pistols fixed on him. He dropped the Steyr and raised his hands passively.“This better be worth a blue THX115B,” said the little fat man, “the lads were due for some strike breaking down the docks.”“This is the reason blue THX115B’s were invented.”“If you say so Ministry man, doesn’t look like a Boche to me.” The man had tried to iron out his local accent, perhaps a recipient of a wartime commission, thought Wilson.“Different times, different enemies, constables incapacitate him.”Everything went black for D’Huberres in a collage of pain and hard calloused fists. “Somebody pick up Walshingham’s body.” was the last thing the Frenchman heard for a while. The two London policemen parted company, each with their task to attend to. Morris looked up the Fisherman’s address - 32 Dawlish Road, following a street map the local constabulary had provided him with. He passed from the coast, past a series of small shops, pleasant houses, the main cemetery dominated by a small but aggressively angular church and the main shopping district which was called Liscard but did not put the Inspector in mind of Cornwall in the slightest. He was surprised to find himself in a series of similar streets with identical and newly built three bedroom semi-detached houses. More the territory of solicitors clerk or a highly rated tradesman than a fisherman with a small boat. Interesting. In the street directly outside the address was a motorcycle. A very new Norton motorcycle with a sidecar painted bright red. Again not typical small fisherman property. Checking he was presentable in the shine of the motorcycle the Inspector approached the door and gave the confident knock of officialdom everywhere.The door was opened by a slender man who was not the typical image of salty sea dog. The flame red hair and light complexion was one thing, the outfit of smart blazer, shirt, tie and grey slacks was another. The man was also youthful mid-twenties as most.“Hello, can I help?” He said hesitantly.“I hope so, Mr Cavendish?”“Which one? I’m sorry I don’t mean to be rude but me or my father?”“Whichever ones the fisherman who works of the pier son, I guessing your father’s the man I’m after.”“Well I help on the boat, but is this the shooting business?”“Indeed.” With the locals capacity for gossip the exchange was probably being declared a St.Valentines’ Day massacre down the Docks, Clubs and Markets of the town.“Come in he’s in the back.”“Thank you.”The hallway was well appointed. Very well appointed. Perhaps the Fisherman was getting himself into trouble with the ‘never-never.’ Morris silently admonished himself for jumping to conclusions. Wait and see.Going past a door way to the front room Morris was shown into the back, a fine furnished dining room with a whole wall devoted to photographs. The stations of Empire, Singapore, Rangoon, Zanzibar, Cape Town, Stanley, Portsmouth, Malta, Gibraltar and the like. Not a single of the photographs of these exotic locations was dated after 1914. Smiling faces of white uniformed navy officers grinned through the sepia. Glancing behind him Morris saw another wall of framed photos but a very different story. The rugged and shell blasted beeches of Gallipoli, the mud of Flanders and few of celebrations in a hospital. Fake smiles sat uneasily in the photographs mist on khaki clad men with thousand yard stares.One face was constant and that face belonged to the man with the red tinged white hair who was rising to great him over a rather complicated model of the SS. Great Britain which was halfway constructed.“Lieutenant Commander Jack Cavenish, Royal Navy, retired. I understand you’re a policeman.” The accent was local suppressed by a grand number of years trying to fit in with social superiors.“That’s right Inspector Morris, of the Yard. Pleas-.”“Good God! Not ‘Mighty’ Morris, not the man who caught the Surbition Strangler, crushed the Fenian bomb gang and cleared up the Greenway shooting.”“The same. How hav-”“Well I read the papers, and have something of an amateur’s interest in criminology. I was attached to the shore patrol in London for a little while before I got transferred to the Royal Navy Division. You were an inspiration. How long have you been here, and why a transfer to Wallasey Police?”Morris had stored his breath for his next opportunity to interject. The man’s enthusiastic interruptions were becoming annoying. In his enthusiasm his accent was also beginning to slip.“Thank you for your interest Commander Cavendish but I’m here to ask some questions and time is of the essense. We must attend to business.”The man responded through straightening his back, pulling on the front of the black roll neck sweater he was wearing nodding while muttering “Of Course.” And sitting down looking at the Inspector attentively. “Thank you Commander,” Morris paused as the young man left the room to a tiny kitchen a long side were the sound of the gas being lit and the kettle filled affirmed that cup of tea would be along shortly. “I understand you came across the incident while returning from sea?”“Well not sea exactly. I’d just took the Jessica out to fire her engines, otherwise they’d be hell to play when the season starts.” The naval man chuckled.“I didn’t know fishing was a seasonal activity?”“Proper fishing isn’t. But who’d partake in proper fishing here, I mean the Irish Sea is rich enough but the Flyde coast men regard it as their bailiwick and they aren’t too particular about how they affirm their claims to the best fishing grounds. The Welsh fishermen regularly find themselves having missiles throw a deck and sometimes even boarded for a fist fight. I’m too old for that game. Not with my own countrymen.”Morris sighed. “So what is it you do in that case.”“Tourists man, tourists, take ‘em out for a bit of line fishing a good bank holiday you have up to a hundred thousand teeming that promenade and they can’t all be happy with ‘what the butlers saw,’ a crack at the arcades or a few pints down the front. Some of them want a bit more sea than seaside and the ferries are just floating omnibuses so I do charter trips for fishing or sight seeing. Know these waters like the back of my hand – worked for the Pilots office before deciding to rest on Navy Pension but a man has to do something. It keeps me active. Plenty of trade in the summer season - even in the week. Thank you son.” The gangly young man ha brought in a tray with tea in best china, and a selection of dainties – the stale garibaldis clashed with the comparative opulence of the house. Morris could understand Taylor’s desire to use the shorthand of fisherman only too well.“Could you describe what you observed as you were tying up the Jessica.” Morris took a proffered cup of tea ‘Thank you.’“Easy enough.” The Commander waved his son out. “Well I was tying up Jessica. Taking my time about it, wasn’t in any particular rush. I could hear shouting - an American fella, Bostonian I’d reckon, Massachusetts any way, a terrible stop – hate the English y’know stock full of Irish, not that here isn’t of-”“Commander please, the night in question.” The Commanders rabbiting about Morris’ past and the Irish had reminded him of a possible contact, he stored it way for future use. A “bye Dad!” And the front door closing confirmed this was not interesting the junior Cavendish at all.Cavendish Senior continued “Well he was arguing at length with a local lass. But he was on the Police boat, which I thought was a bit rum, so I kept watch. The gal was that dizzy bint Charlotte from Dale View. On Tuesdays I cash up at the same time as Mrs Merriweather, we share bankers, and if you knew the trouble that girl had caused that good woman.” Morris fixed the Commander with a stare normally reserved for old women and soho puffs as he took a slurp of tea and wiped his moustache.“Well I digress don’t I, yes it was Charlotte sure enough the young Jezebel, I had the impression from her side at least she was scared and it was something of an affair of the heart. The American seemed not to feel that way. Callous bastard you lowly born colonial – especially towards the fairer sex.” The Commander chopped the air with the blade of his palm for emphasis over his cup of tea.“Please continue.”“Well I had Paris leave in ’17 and the first Yanks were there and you wouldn’t belie-”“About the night in question if you please.” Morris arched an eyebrow in frustration. “Well then his fella turns up.” The cup of tea was placed next to the model. “I’d say he was French. At least from the accent but there was something else there - a touch of the tar brush. The man was either not metropolitan France born, well travelled or spent a lot of time with non-native French speakers. There was a bit of a stand off so I went and got the cricket bat I keep in the cabin for unruly parties in case it turned nasty – next I hear a splash and some shots. Well I’m no coward but I’m not getting shot for an affair of the heart between a Frog and yank. So I made my self scare and contacted the local constabulary.”Morris drained the tea. “Anything about the splash and shots?”“Why yes – the splash was something small if I hadn’t been a sea-going man all my life I wouldn’t have heard it over the surf of the sea, but you tune that background noise out – like you Londoners and traffic I expect.” Morris nodded a lifetime of observation and enquiry meant he’d encounter the phenomena many times.“As to the shots – three were from a heavy revolver most likely a Webley, the other sounded like a Luger to me, had the familiar crack of a 9mm automatic anyroad.” The gunning of a motorcycle outside punctuated the end of the sentence.“Good lad, hopes to enter the Tourist Tournament this year if he afford the fare to Douglas. After that the police boat went off.”“Well we’ve informed the Navy so they should be able to catch him.”“With what? There might be a Navy ship in the Irish Sea if your lucky but it’s a heck of a lot of water. Was the man a sailor?”“He’d had some experience.”“I hope for his and Charlottes sake he knows these waters.” Morris didn’t like the ladle of threat mixed into the man’s voice.It was off-season and the stout sun burnt old man had paid a king’s ransom for the deep cellar what hotelier would have refused? Certainly not the John Birant manager of the Hotel Victoria – that payment together with the Dancing Marathon in the main ballroom meant he might well have two weeks at his cottage on Anglesey this year.The dancing marathon also severed Sir Archibald purposes – between the band, the clomping feet of the clumsy working class couples and the chatter of flirtatious spectators nothing should penetrate the outside world from the deep cellar dug deep into the Cheshire sandstone.These same factors did nothing for D’Huberres strapped to a hard leather chair and awoken by ether. He was told what was to be done to him, had it done and then was told why it was done broken by the same patient questioning.For a major international waterway the grey waters of Liverpool Bay can be cruel, especially to smaller craft. The currents are strong and need local knowledge to be able to navigate. Had it been Ostende Kenton would have had that knowledge in abundance, but it wasn’t. In the urgency to escape the Frenchman he hadn’t noticed that the boat was coming under a firm tugging undertow which had proved impossible to master in the small police craft.Rather than the original plan of following the coast and secreting himself on a small Welsh coastal village before the heat passed Kenton was now fighting to manage boat over the sea squall and retching noises coming from Charlotte. ‘Be just like the dame to go over the side, and I’ll be stuck for murder.’ thought Kenton. He had lost land through the poor grey light and no idea of his position. He had managed to turn the boat occasionally but the current wouldn’t release it’s grip against the petty churning of the pitiful engines. Probably bought from the lowest tender. All Kenton could hope for was to follow the flow and hope the weather would hold till he reached Ireland or better yet the Isle of Mann.It was in this forlorn plight that Pilot Officer Marcus Kent noticed the tiny craft in the swell of the unforgiving Irish Sea. He manoeuvred his ‘stick and string’ Swordfish biplane into a shallow dive, bashed the side of his open cockpit to gain his Observer’s attention and pointed in the direction. Flight Sergeant Wallace arched round in his chair and thrust a ‘thumbs up’ alongside his pilot’s head once he spotted small vessel pass under the port wing.Charlotte noticed the plane first. “Rescue! Rescue!” she screamed shrilly. And then stopped. Suddenly. “Kenton why has it got a big oblong bomb under it?”Wallace located the Very pistol and fired a red flare into the sky – hopefully the remainder of their flight would be able to see it and combine on this position. The Ministry men had been very clear the Bolshevik gangster and his moll was making aware with secrets essential to the country and had to be stopped. The Irish couldn’t be trusted to hand him over, the Navy where to slow so it was down to the Royal Air Force specifically 273 Squadron, Coastal Command, RAF Woodvale, to save the day.Kenton clocked the Swordfish and it flew over head, he wasn’t a naval man but he recognised an air-launched torpedo when he saw one. The Very pistol shot also worried him – it didn’t mean a thing to him so it must have been for some one else. In fact shortly he realised it was at least six other people as three more biplanes arrived and began to circle the small wooden speck in a churning carpet of grey.“Kenton why have they all got oblong bomb thingeys underneath?”“It ain’t to say hello nicely sister.”“But they’re going now.”One Swordfish had darted low and quick back towards the English shore. With unreliable radios it was the surest way to get in touch with the Navy and ensure a destroyer was here later. The other three were arching way slowly. Then they gradually started to turn to face the boat and flew towards it in a line astern and flew low and level towards the craft.P/O Kent was first up to the ockie and wanted it to be over as he gently nudged the resisting Swordfish online with the target. The Ministry man had been very clear ‘torpedo the boat, note it’s position – do not, repeat, do not strafe it with machine gun fire.’“Charlotte grab hold of me.”“Now Kenton? You are naughty. What would the pilo-”He grabbed her - if nothing else he might need the extra warmth and ballast.Kent released the Torpedo - a true aim. He flipped a thumb up to his Observer and Flight mates and broke off to let the following planes see his accuracy and waste their ammo if they wanted.“They fired!” Screamed Charlotte, “They’re English!”“Well spotted Sherlock” roared Kenton and he threw a bundle of himself and Charlotte over the side as the Torpedo’s bristling wake rammed towards the boat. The icy grip of the Irish Sea fired their already adrenaline fired senses then the crushing wake of the torpedoes explosion pushed them into unconsciousness. Taylor walked up the steps of Manor Road Police Station and flashed his warrant card at the smartly dressed if young sergeant behind the desk.“Alright son, I’m here on the Kenton case what’s the business with the Admiralty - found your runaway dinghy yet?”The Sergeant visibly took a deep breath and gripped the counter with white knuckles.“Come into the station Detective Sergeant Taylor if you please.” And he moved to open the door for officers. Taylor was allowed in to a have a sharp whisper in his ear.“And keep ya fucking voice down you fucking dense cockney wanker – the fucking Lord Mayors here to examine the loss of the bleeding boat !”Handy as he was when push came to shove Taylor was not about to worsen the already ropey situation by teaching this juvenile sergeant a lesson in manners. He did make a mental note of the fellows number for a bit of post case revenge though.“Sorry Mate, anyway any news?”The Sergeant beckoned him down a corridor and into a small office once in side he gestured to an ashtray while retrieving a packet of Senior Service from his breast pocket.“Smoke?”“Only other peoples, but yes ta.” Taylor could unlike many people take and leave tobacco but he felt this was the most diplomatic course of action. Both men ignited the course tobacco and inhaled.“Right the Admiralty can’t do a frigging thing. Apparently Britannia may rule the waves but hereabouts she just gets in the way of the merchant traffic. But.”“But?” Taylor mirrored the Sergeant taking a drag.“But the Air Ministry say they have some aeroplanes looking for the boat and your suspects. Have since this morning. Why didn’t you tell us you rang it through?”Taylor considered his options. Reading the ribbons on the Sergeants uniform he could see a George Cross and a King’s Policeman medal but no military decorations. He decided he could trust the man to a point.“We didn’t ring it through, we’ve been lumbered with some shifty Home Office wankers and they keep pulling tricks like this.”The two men took parallel drags before “Wankers,” issued out of them in stereo.The younger Sergeant continued “Well they’re planning on shadowing the sole pride of Wallasey police’s fleet and radioing the position – if they can find it. When Kenton makes land fall with the our delicious Charlotte we’ll call the local plod and they’ll get nicked.”“What if he makes to Ireland?”“From experience the good men of the Garda will promise to do everything they can for us while treating Kenton and Charlotte to Guinness and oysters and the bus fare to Dublin all the while saying ‘good on ya’ for upsetting the English. Mind you that little boat isn’t going to be too hot on the open sea the Harbour Master is radioing all recently departed and incoming ships he can with a description – we might be lucky, a ship’s master may co-operate if he rescues them.”Taylor had an idea of the answer from his own experience in London. “But what are the chances of that?”“Low and lower if your Kenton is a good liar.” A final drag killed the capston cigerette.The silence was broken by the anguished disgust of local officialdom. Taylor heard the word ‘rate-payers’, ‘expense’ and ‘election’ and imagined some superintendent getting it in the neck. Taylor held out a hand.“Taylor.” “Goodwood.”The men shook hands.In the light grey of Exchange Flags the senior London policeman tried to look inconspicuous in the flurry of tea break taking office workers and skiving local politicians and apparatchniks. Behind him was the neo-classical beauty of the blackened stone town hall of Liverpool he circled a round a gothic monument to Nelsons Victory of Trafalgar all hooded death and ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ Morris inspected his watch, ‘where was McCavener?’ In the light of Cavendish awaking a deep buried memory Morris had made a few calls and then crossed the river taking a bus through the Wallasey Tunnel. A stout red faced and red haired figure blundered through one of the high arches which flanked a more recent monument to the dead of Flanders and Jutland which perched in an alcove opposite it’s century more senior predecessor. He was purposeful in this walk to the point of rude, his black pin-stripe had seen better days and the bowler hat was somewhat weathered. Suddenly his stiff legged walk stopped being quite so purposeful his glided past a newspaper man and purchased an Echo and began to read it, distracted by the back page and narrowly avoided clashing with Morris.“I’m terribly sorry sir” the voice ringed out cloaked in a thick Northern Irish brogue.“For God sake Tom why the amateur dramatics?”“Shut it ya thick English bookworm” spat out the Ulsterman, “come with me.”They were taken out of the light grey square towards the riverfront and found themselves in a small pub ‘The Pig and Whistle’ surrounded by buildings packed with shops selling admiralty charts and administering maritime insurance. The crowd was a sprinkling of office workers over a base of docks foremen and other upward mobile manual movers. The rouged figure of McCavener tipped a nod at the barman who opened a door leading to the upstairs. A private room was laid out with a couple of ploughman’s’ and a brace of bottled Guinness for both the men.“Remember how much of the black stuff we got through stamping out Fenian bastards in the War, Morris lad?” belted out McCavener in double time as he prised a bottle with an opener attached to his watch chain.“Tom, it’s good to see you but this is strictly business.” Morris shuddered at the thought of splashed teeth and blood in the backrooms of Kilburn nicks.“Ah it’s always business for you Morris lad? Never passion, never King and Country.” The pronunciation of country suggested a ladies more private areas.“This is different.” Escaped from Morris’ clenched teeth.“Aye I think it might be at that Morris lad.” He poured a Guinness professionally in a pint ‘sleeve’. ‘But you’d be disappointed if you think me the man you knew then.’Morris couldn’t answer that and didn’t.“I’ve spoken to a few of the lads in Special Branch – a blue THX115B issued and a snatch performed in the industrial part of Wallasey a place called Poulton while you were busy with ya old colonels and seaside postcards in New Brighton. It was on a Frenchman. The ignorant wacker bastards thought he was a Hun. Only fucking good for breaking Docker’s heads these taigs and skirt wearing apes they have here.”“Who requested it?”“A man called Wilson, part of your entourage Morris lad?”“Could be Tom, but the less I tell you the better off you’d be.”Tom sipped his Guinness in sullen silence for a moment. The glass returned to the table with a sharp clink.“Come on lad, have a drink and trust old Tom.”“I can’t.”Another stronger glup of Guinness. “Ya think I’m spent do ya Tom? McCavener the Terror of Kilburn. Ya think I’ve gone soft or something Morris lad?”“Not soft no.”“Same as the sleek public school arseholes who put me in charge of those black and tan’s? What was it that fucker Henready called me ‘a blugeon rather than a scalpel? Ya think I can’t hack it? Some fucking Fenians have a go and you think I’ve lost it? Pack him off to be patronised by wacker taigs filing papers on trade unionists and Chink opium dens till retirement” The Ulsterman slammed his left hand on his left shin to a resounding clink as his heavy hand the wooden prothestic.“Thanks for the information Tom. I’m sorry, I can’t let you get involved.” Morris stood up to go.“No fucking can’t! You won’t!”“No I won’t Tom, thanks for the information but I never enjoyed it and I won’t work with man who did.” Morris made for the door.“It was for King and Country ya ignorant London wanker! King and Country!”Morris glided through the door dodging the pelted half drank pint of the black stuff.McCaverner made sure Morris had gone down the stairs and had exited the pub by peaking through the heavy curtains – he picked up the phone and dialled.“George Street Dim Sum House,” said a sing-song Chinese accent.“I’m not on board – he didn’t buy it.” He replaced the receiver angrily. The Flying plane took off from the small Island in the middle of the Dee Estuary. The proper code word has been radioed from Woodvale and now the Ministry would see what – if anything could be salvaged from the icy grip of the Irish Sea.The frisky ginger Canadian pilot took command of the plane. They had little light but the three ministry men in the back had excellent night vision and they had the exact position of the sinking. They also would all listen to the pilot on the matter of the aircraft, flying and what was and was not possible. For that reason alone they’re unique in the ministry. They sat in the back cabin hunched in reefer jackets and flat caps – two cradling shotguns and the third the bulk of a Lewis gun. No body knew that their pilot had the very likeness of a certain Inspector Morris romantic Scandinavian fantasies. Goodwood had checked the foreign person register and the few Frenchmen in it didn’t fit the age of the suspect. He’d advised Taylor of the forty-three B & Bs I the town and the major hotels and together borrowing a squad car they’d left to check the registers. Goodwood was confident that local hoteliers could tell a Frenchman – with a major seaport a mile over the Mersey foreigners we’re the rarity they normally were outside the Smoke. Taylor had suggested phoning the Liverpool force to check but Goodwood took the car past the River’s bank and as Taylor looked at the congested river packed with merchantmen and banana boats queuing to enter docks he thought better of it.There was no joy in the Guest houses and by the time Taylor and Goodwood had finished it was seven O’Clock. Morris had been busy. Very busy. With Kenton and Kenton Junior leads dried up he’d decided to check on Sir Archibald’s caterers. A quick check at the local land registry and the Chamber of Commerce had confirmed the Bengal Lancer had been a seaside café until six months ago but had been bought by a Mr Chandra Sahib. A few calls to Met friends who wouldn’t log the call confirmed that Mr Sahib of the correct age and appearance had arrived in the UK nine months before that. Lancaster House in return to the appropriate codes also confirmed he had died shortly after from a liver infection in a charity hospital in London. “Nice to know our spies are as original as the other lot.” Muttered Morris after having returned the receiver.Morris collected his coat and hat from the porter at the Land Registry and returned to Dale View.The Hotel Victoria’s band had taken a break and as a result Sir Archibald was enjoying a subtle pipe while Wilson was wiping the blood and bile off the leather chair. No body was enjoying the break as much as Alphonse D’Huberres he was aware he was on the point of breaking, and not far from dying. It was a case of which came first.“We may as well finish for the night.” Said Sir Archibald “if the Frenchman does get a night’s worth of blood transfusion he’ll be no good to us at all.”“What about the noise?” said Wilson.“This marathon dancing fad – the dancing can last four or more days we’ll have plenty of cover tomorrow don’t worry.” Sir Archibald picked satchel with surprising dexterity and suspended it from his left shoulder. To everyone’s surprise the mahogany knight reached into a whole in the wall and twisted his arm and a section of wall opened up. He grabbed a torch and beckoned.“A little secret of this place – used to be second to Cornwall for wrecking and smuggling. These tunnels belonged to ‘Mother Redcap’ the Al Capone of her day. The Ministry happens to have the excise charts come, I have a room for our guest.” D’Huberres was suspended between Singh and Wilson and carried through the portal into a tunnel. It was lit, poorly, but lit by a series of electric lights nailed into the wall with visible wiring attaching them. Wilson wondered if the inhabitants of New Brighton would notice the increase to their bills in the coming months. After seventy yards they came to alcove off to the right inside was an oubliette some fifteen feet deep with at the base a bunk laid out with blankets and a supply of blood, of the appropriate type. Singh jumped down and took the lowered form of the Frenchman strapped him to the bed and attached the blood supply with practised ease. Before exiting the sunken chamber by means of a rope ladder. Sir Archibald gripped the top of Singh’s arm in a manner that made Wilson feel a little uncomfortable. “Excellent Singh. Wilson let’s show you your quarters’ Wilson had guessed that the small carved space opposite was his from the hammock lying between nails in the walls, the bowl of water and the bedpan. All you need man – here.”Wilson took the proffered satchel - a thermos, a copy of the times a torch, an old copy of the Times and Sporting Life, an apple and some of Mrs Merriweather’s ham sandwiches, identifiable as her handiwork even through the greaseproof paper. Somebody should tell that woman that copious amounts of butter are not a substitute for filling. When this job was finished Wilson would not recommend the catering of the Northwest. “Thank you Sir.” Wilson hoped the Frenchman would break on the morrow, he didn’t fancy a second night in these caves.Morris was enjoying a pipe while watching the trickle of surrendering Marathon dancers leaving the Hotel Victoria sore footed and exhausted. Taylor dropped off by Goodwood waved and wandered over.“The Frenchman’s not in these parts and the airforce are trying to find the boat no Navy boats around Sir.”“The Frenchman was picked up by Liverpool Special branch with Wilson but we don’t have any way of finding where he is.”“So we’re buggered then Sir.”“No we must have missed something - we’ll need to look over the original case papers. There has to be a lead somewhere. I also know for a fact the owner of the Bengal Lancer is somehow involved with Sir Archibald.”“Really – how?”“Checked the records the man died down south before buying the restaurant.”“Well blow me. Oh Sir, found a local man we may be able to trust.”It was Morris’ turn to be surprised “Really?”“A Sergeant Goodwood, uniform no liking for the Ministry and knows the area well.”“Excellent we might need him” Morris finished the pipe.“I’d love to know where that Frenchman was he’s bound to know something behind the original murder – what or whoever sent him after Kenton was more than likely the source of Junior’s demise.”Deep in thought the two London detectives caught the dying light of the day as the leant on the wall of Dale View. How slovenly thought Mrs Merriweather and decided to admonish them – that Inspector’s eyes had been getting too familiar as it was. She opened the front door.“Gentlemen, please don’t lean on the walls – you’re as bad as Sir Archibald sneaking about for extra lodgings without a bye or leave.”“Really” said the Inspector casually and obeying Mrs Merriweather, years of ‘happy’ marriage and got him used to a female voice’s command.“Why would he move out Ma’am?” asked a suddenly courteous Taylor who had also instinctually obeyed the instruction. “I don’t know but I accidentally saw him chatting to the Manager of the Hotel Victoria and they exchanged money.”“I think we should have this out with right now Ma’am we have no desire to swap lodgings, Taylor!”“Eh?” Queried Taylor.“Maybe Sir Archibald has other guests let’s investigate.” Morris left.Taylor put two and two together and followed Morris past fading and defeated Marathon Dancers – including the younger Cavendish.Sir Archibald and Singh had left the deep cellar called in to a room Sir Archibald had rented on the ground floor of the hotel. They showered and changed tenderly. Leaving the hotel via the pick up a swift brandy they were confronted by a flustered looking Morris and Taylor scouring the area filled with aching competitors and other youngsters.“Inspector, care for a drink Mr Singh and I am about to retire to the Bengal Lancer.”“Thanks but no thanks Sir Archibald. Nice place this,”“Indeed, so much nicer that some of the smaller hostelries hereabouts.”‘So the old man was putting some cards on the table’ though Taylor, he wondered how the boss would react.“If you say so, no news on Kenton I’m afraid.”“Hmmmm Unfortunate, we must have a meeting tomorrow and see how we can go forward, come on Singh.”“Oh one thing Sir Archibald, where’s Wilson? He owes me a fiver.” Chipped in Taylor.“Speaking to London – I’ll remind him of the debt when I next see him. Thank you gentlemen.” With that the elderly agent and his escort left the weary dancers and frustrated policemen.The pain receded. Alphonse fought and thought against unconsciousness with all his being. He had considered teasing out the supply of blood with his teeth and defeating his enemies through suicide. But no - He was no fanatical oriental and why deny himself revenge. While Wilson snored he had artfully dislocated various joints to escape his bonds now he waited, his captors had bound his wounds at least and he felt stronger thanks to the blood. He knew places he’d be safe to stay over the river. Taking the tubing from the container of blood he checked it – the rubber wasn’t too elastic it would do as a garrotte. He very quietly moved the bunk and leant it almost vertical against the wall. He’d have one chance to do this. One.“Hey! Hey! English! Hey!”Wilson stirred. What did that Frenchman want? “What you after Frenchie? Haven’t you had enough?”“I want to tell all, now so I am at peace.”Wilson threw himself from the Hammock grabbed a note pad and looked over the side of the Frenchman’s hole.NOWWith all his strength D’Huberres ran at and up near vertical bunk propelled – looping the rubber pipe over him like a skipping rope he caught Wilson’s neck as he descended dragging him down. The French master assassin rolled out of the way of the plummeting secret service man who landed with a crack of ribs and break of nose. Quickly before shock subsided and allowed the Englishman’s strength to tell Alphonse straddled his back and pulled the pipe tight across Wilson’s plaid throat. While he tried to struggle it was too late and after a short time D’Huberres released the pipe leaving Wilson with a purple bloated head like an ugly boil. He took the Englishman’s clothes – a loose fit but adequate and now with time on his side made a patient but successful clamber out of the Chamber. Backtracking he made it out of the deep cellar. He had a bone to pick with a certain English spymaster and he knew from slips in conversation were that arrogant ros-bif ate.Taylor and Morris were about to return to their beds when they saw an often described figure pass by them in the corridor. They both stopped looked at each other, then at the staggering figure in a too large but strangely familiar camel coat. The Whisperer returned “That’s our Frenchman.”“Looks like it, Sir, but he’s been bashed about something rotten.”“We’ll tail him. Come on.”The followed him out on to the main road the Hotel shared with Dale View were the weak form hanged a left and half walked half tripped down the road, after a few hundred yards. He stopped and crossed over to the familiar and half empty premises of the Bengal Lancer. Morris and Taylor where both about thirty yards behind him as he pulled a .455 Webley revolver from the Camel coat pocket and released a salvo of shots at the two figures in the window. They both broke into a run as the window of the ‘Lancer shattered and the figure in the oversized coat collapsed.Back to Table of ContentsChapter 9In the Midst of LifeBy Matt Farr“The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not Want”The clouds hung low in the darkened sky, and the rain drove down upon the small gathering as if it would never stop. The Reverend Carlton stood at the head of the grave solemnly intoning scripture, whilst the sodden congregation mumbled along with him from patchy memory, the prayer books tucked away from the rain in pockets and handbags. The only other sounds where the distant rumble of thunder, the perpetual drumming of rain onto hats, umbrellas and the spreading mud, and the gentle sobbing of Joan Merriweather. It had, reflected Sergeant Taylor, been a long and bloody awful week. “He maketh me to lie down in Green Pastures, he leadeth me beside the Still Waters”The world seemed to slow down to Taylor as he raced forward towards the Frenchman, who was fumbling with his revolver in an attempt to reload. Part of his brain was screaming at him to attack, the adrenaline driving him forward, keen for some action after weeks of legwork and brainwork. Another was carefully gauging his own mortality, counting the rounds that the Frenchie had reloaded (…one….two) and somewhat cheerfully reminding him of all the shooting victims he’d seen in his life, right up to the false Kenton lying cold on the beach. A third part could only think of Joan. He seemed for a moment aware of everything, the look of hate and anger on the face of the attacker, the shocked, wide-eyed patrons inside the restaurant, the slow fall of thousands of fragments of glass still raining down from the shattered window. He could smell the hot stench of food, mixed with blood and his own sweat, and overall that the cordite that hung in the air. He could hear Morris behind him, knowing that he was faster than the older man (first to be shot, part of his brain told him) and suddenly there was a great roar from the floor of the restaurant and time snapped back to it’s normal, too hectic pace. The bloodied figure burst through the remains of the Bengal Lancer’s window with a bellow the like of which Taylor had never heard. It took him a second to recognise Lal Singh, his coat streaked with blood, his Turban frayed and reddened, and his usually impassive face wide-eyed and contorted as he leapt towards the frantically re-loading man. He knocked the Frenchman over, straddled him and clasped his great hands on his victim’s throat, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. Taylor reached him moments later, and with a policeman’s instinct grabbed the enraged Sikh in an attempt to stop him killing. Before he knew it he was on the floor. He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt a tooth or two on his tongue, and before him he could see Singh rising to his feet, the Frenchman struggling with one hand still clamped around his throat. Morris, a few feet behind Taylor in the rush towards trouble, stooped to pick up the dropped gun, lying open, but partially loaded on the floor. Singh shouted incoherently, some Heathen tongue reckoned Taylor, and flung the now red-faced Frenchman towards the Inspector. Taylor leapt to his feet, slipping his trusted cosh from his coat pocket. There could obviously be no reasoning with the Darkie now. There was a shot. And another. Singh’s blood-soaked face changed, registered shock, then pain, then relaxed as he slumped to the floor. Behind him stood the shooter, looking shaken but holding his gun towards Taylor. A short distance away Morris lay dazed next to the wall of the Bengal Lancer, suddenly looking older than Taylor could have imagined possible. There was a moments silence, and an almost eerie calm before the Frenchman smirked at the London Policemen. “Thank you very much Gentleman, for you most kind assistance. Now, I must be going. Au Revoir, I am sure.” After he had left, running with a curious, half-hobbled gait towards the docks, Taylor cursed. The Frog had only had two bullets loaded! “He restoreth my Soul, he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s Sake”Sir Archibald lay spread on the floor of the Bengal Lancer, his coat covered in Blood and the remains of his curry. A Doctor had been found in the pub across the street, and whilst there where doubts about his complete sobriety, the Inspector had made clear he was in no mood to argue, and Taylor knew better then to challenge him. And to be honest, Sir Archibald looked in a very bad way indeed, and to Taylor’s mind no Doctor, sober or otherwise, would be able to do much for him. “…Singh…?” The word bubbled out from Sir Archibald’s mouth amidst dark, foamed blood. Never a good sign. “No Sir Archibald, it’s Morris.” The Inspectors voice was low, gentle. “Who was that, Sir? Who shot you? Why? You must know him, Sir Archibald.”“…hubris…”“Sir?” Morris turned to Doctor. “Well, man?”The Doctor quailed beneath Morris’ glare. “There’s nothing I can do, Inspector. The man’s been shot at least three times in the chest, and there’s one of them in his lung. He’s done for, I’m afraid” Morris held the Doctors’ face with his gaze for a moment, then sighed, and turned back to the dying man on the floor. “Listen to me, Sir Archibald. He’s done for you. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. You have to tell me who he was. You have to help me catch him. ” “…I can’t…” The Old Man on the floor coughed, more blood spilling down his overcoat and staining Morris’ hands as he held Sir Archibald. “…security…you’re not to be told…own protection…”“Dammit Man! Who’s going to get him if I’m not? I don’t care about your secrets and your security but I care about Murder!”“…more important.…than me…you can’t know…too much will blind you like it has the rest…like Kenton…only the Box matters”“Box?” Morris’ voice was starting to rise. Taylor could only stand mute and watch the strange, spice scented tableau before him. “I don’t care about your god-damned box, Kenton or anything else. No matter what you’ve read about me I’m a simple copper and I won’t see people gunned down on the streets of my country”…am I really …dying, Morris?”“Christ! Do you think I’d lie to you? Now?” A ghost of a smile passed Sir Archibald’s lips, a quiet knowing smile. He coughed, a dreadful, wet, racking cough. “…D’Huberries…the Frenchman…he knows, he…has the Box…he needs the key…find it, you, you…will find him…beware the…others…the Chinaman… …”The siren wail of the approaching Ambulance drowned out any famous last words Sir Archibald Godfrey Wakely, VC may have had to share with prosperity. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me”The Boarding House was quiet now. Wilson had still not shown up from “calling London” and Lal Singh lay unconscious and desperately ill in a local Hospital Ward. Breakfast was silent, Joan Merriweather looking puzzled yet unquestioning at Taylor’s swollen jaw and the deep cut on Morris’ brow. What she would think when she saw the Laundry was anyone’s guess, and Taylor was in no hurry to have that conversation. They had left the hospital in the small hours, returning to Daleview to the icy glare of a woman got out of bed for guests far too early in the morning. This had melted somewhat at the sight of the two policemen in borrowed overcoats, looking tired and demoralised, but Taylor felt that somehow his burgeoning relationship had taken a knock, and he was currently working on a way to somehow repair the damage. A meal? A trip to the cinema? There was that new whatisnance, dancing fella, Astaire! film doing the rounds… There was a knock at the door, interrupting Taylor’s attempt to remember the location of the nearest cinema. Mrs Merriweather, still silently remonstrating with the absent Charlotte headed towards the door. Taylor heard it open, and the familiar voice of Sergeant Goodwood echoed along the corridor towards the dining room. He sounded subdued, thought Taylor, but then at this bloody time in the morning who wouldn’t? Goodwood came into the Dining Room looking formal and grave. His hat was under his elbow, and his nod of recognition towards Taylor was stiff and somewhat distant. So much for bonding, thought Taylor. He gestured for his fellow Sergeant to sit, but he shook his head and instead pulled a chair out for Joan, who sat looking surprised and suddenly fearful. “Inspector Morris Sir? I’ve been asked to bring a message for you. I understand you’re picking up Sir Archibald Wakely’s “business” for the moment” He rolled the word around his mouth as if it tasted badly. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news Sir, Mrs Merriweather, but it appears that Mr James Kenton and Miss Charlotte Kingsworth have had an accident in their boat. Miss Kingsworth’s body has been recovered by the coastguard, Sir. I’m sorry but I’ll need someone to formally identify the body.” Joan paled, and sagged into her seat. Taylor stood up, more on some strange instinct than conscious thought, and moved to crouch next to her, holding her hand as she started to shake. Morris glanced at the two of them and spoke gruffly. “I’ll do it. Sergeant Taylor, can you make sure Mrs Merriweather is alright?”“Yes, Sir”Morris and Goodwood left to the sound of a woman’s gentle sobbing, into another cold, misty New Brighton morning. “Thou preparest a table before me in the prescence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over”“Jesus bloody Christ! Not another one! It’s like the bloody Somme!”Taylor had had just about enough. After weeks of praying for a bit of excitement, half the people he knew in this godforsaken Northern hell-hole had been killed or vanished in the space of one night! And now more ministry men (and one woman in this case) had crawled out from whatever hole they had been hiding under and were now proposing some hair-brained scheme involving foreign climes. And to tope their presentation they had let drop the little fact that the dammed Froggie had killed Wilson on his way to his date with Sir Archibald. “So, let me get this straight. Your lot had Kenton’s boat stopped, but instead he blew it up, killing poor Charlotte and presumably himself in the process? But you ain’t found his body, only hers? You sure he’s dead?”“Not entirely, no” The leader of the four Ministry Men was a soft spoken bald man named Charles Thatcher. “We presume he is dead, however, because it is unlikely that after blowing the boat up he would have been in any fit state to swim ashore. And the local constabulary have been most helpful in searching for him”Local Constabulary! Bloody Hell, whatever next? Taylor firmly expected Thatcher to start calling him and Morris “chaps” next. The inspector was in one of his contemplative moods again, gazing at the ministry team, sizing them up. Taylor however, was in no mood for quiet reflection. “So he’s gone and you don’t know where he was headed or why? And this Frog, what’s that about?”“Look chaps, I know you’ve had a hard couple of days and this must all be a bit of a shock to you, so I’ll go through it again. The Frenchman works for an criminal syndicate that is attempting to undermine British Rule in India. We believe that they have some pre-Raj artefact that they can use to inflame the natives into further unrest. However they are still missing part of it, a “Key” of some sort. It is my supposition that this pendant is either the key itself or in some way connected to it, hence the import attached to it”“And Kenton?”“Mr Kenton appears to have been playing his own game I’m afraid. However assuming he kept it on his person it must now be at the bottom of the Irish Sea, hopefully thwarting any plans that this criminal group may have had for it. All we need to do now is to Monsieur D’Huberres and this should lead us to this gang of agitators. Unfortunately neither my friends nor myself have seen him, so we will need you two to accompany us in order to identify him. A man matching his description left the country bound for Cairo yesterday, so that will be our first destination.”“Cairo? I’m not going to bloody Cairo! Inspector?”But Morris was still lost in thought. Processing information, thought Taylor. If I didn’t know better though, he reckoned, I’d think that all he has doing was staring at that good-looking woman in the flight uniform. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever”And that was three days ago. The remaining days had been taken up packing, writing reports, and in Taylor’s case, comforting Mrs Merriweather. All of Charlotte’s past transgressions appeared to have been forgiven, and by the time they were standing at the sodden grave-side in the rain she had been transformed in memory into a model employee, pure and radiant and undone by the foul work of others. Again, Taylor reflected that he’d never understand women. The three ministry men and their pilot stood nearby, swelling a depressingly small congregation, a couple of cars waiting to take him and Morris to the airfield where they would be flying out to Egypt. Taylor was still livid. He’d protested, complained, made calls, tried to pull in favours but he was still bound for the Colonies with their funny food and hot weather in pursuit of some guy that they’ll never find! The whole thing was fishy anyway – if it was all over some Indian agitators, why where him and Morris involved? And why would some pendant be important? After a couple of chats with Thatcher and more usefully one of his sidekicks, a hefty Yorkshireman named Tanner he’d come to the conclusion that they knew little more (if that) than the Inspector and himself. Thatcher certainly thought he had it all sussed but he smelt of pencil-pusher to Taylor, and he reckoned that Morris would tear him to sheds given the chance. He was getting worried about Morris however. The Inspector hadn’t been the same since the fight with D’Huberres, and he seemed to spending a lot of time in thought. Hopefully he’ll snap out of it soon, thought Taylor, else I’m going to have no-one to talk to. The service finished, and the party trudged slowly through the mud towards the waiting cars. “Amen”The heat haze across the Pyramids distorted the immense structures, shortening them, blurring them, and erasing the diggers around the base from D’Huberres’ view. He was nervous, sweating from more than just the heat, as he awaited his contact. Cairo was hot in more ways than one, he was sure. He couldn’t stay here long. The British would find him and put in some Rosbif jail cell before hanging him. That’s if his damned employers don’t kill him first. “Busy, Alphonse? Can I join you?” He froze at the voice, the heat suddenly forgotten. That voice, smooth, silky, seductive and, as he turned around, that body. Despite himself his eyes ate her up, smooth tanned legs, a man’s shorts rolled up to reveal more thigh than was necessary, the shirt open too low, just enough cleavage revealed to embarrass the on-looker without being too indecent, the long, slender neck leading up to a delicate face, deep dark eyes and a look of amusement written across her face. And the knife on the belt. Never forget the knife. “Alphonse? Are you alright?” “Katrina. How are you? Well, I hope?” “As well as can be expected, in the circumstances. You’ve caused quite a fuss though, we’ve all been very excited by it” “I can explain…” “Silly. You don’t have too. It’s fine. Wakely is dead and those clowns in the Ministry won’t have a clue what he was really looking for. The Chinaman sits in his den and plots and spies but is still behind us, and nowhere near the box. But there’s still a few loose ends to tie up.”“But….I lost the Pendant…”“So you said. You must be tired Alphonse, you’re not thinking properly. Why would Kenton risk his life to steal the Pendant and then throw it away? What’s the sense in that?” “Merde! He tricked me! The Bastard!”“Yes he did. And then the ministry blew him up. But they think he’s dead, but I think he’s not. And I’m so rarely wrong, don’t you agree Alphonse?”She leaned closer to him, and the fear heightened his senses. He could feel her scent, the power of it, the expensive perfume overlaying a more primeval sweat, and the potential mixing of sex and death was uncomfortable. “So we’re going to play a little game. We’re going to flush Kenton, and let the ministry find him. And when they get the Pendant, then you, and me, in our ways, are going to get it off him.”The passenger in seat 6 had certainly been in the wars, thought Maria, as she worked her way up the passenger cabin towards the front. Not The War, obviously, his injuries looked far to fresh, but the eye-patch certainly leant an air of daring to his face. Handsome too, she reckoned, one the bruising dies down. Certainly a confident type, but then as an American it comes with the territory. And finally there was the necklace. Must be a girlfriends’, from the way he kept it close. Shame, she thought, and continued down the aisle. And in seat six, a tired, aching but elated James Kenton griped the Bulls-head Pendant tight, secure in his escape, and waited for the plane to land. Back to Table of ContentsChapter 10Meanwhile, in Cairo…By Stephen CowleyThe hot air washed over Kenton as he stepped off the plane into the Heliopolis Aerodrome. The journey had been long and tiring. Air travel was meant to be fast but after so many delays and diversions he would have been better off taking a cruiser and getting some rest. Almost. He hefted the small bag that was the total sum of his belongings onto his left shoulder wincing as a stab of pain reminded him that the bag needed to go on the other shoulder these days. He gently moved the bag to the right shoulder. Another wince, better then the left but not at all well. He stepped carefully down the plane steps unused to the lack of depth perception this eye-patch was giving him. Truth be told the eye patch wasn’t the problem. The mess under it was. Bruised, scratched, and maybe gone forever according to the sawbones he’d seen. But who’d trust a back street doctor more used to performing abortions on world-weary whores or desperate girls? A desperate man that’s who and he was as desperate as they come. His ragged plan was proof enough of that. But oddly he felt safer now. Back on familiar ground and if the file Morris had was any indication it seemed the British had no idea about his time in Cairo. A dangerous assumption but any air of safety was welcome after this last month. A shudder went up his spine at the mere memory of that cold morning when he’d first stared into his own dead eyes, illuminated by the pale glow of an electric lantern. Even if he had hidden it from everybody, he knew that it had shaken him to his core.Passport control a mere formality. And he was through and out into the terminal.He stopped short as the horde of scruffy Arabic Dragomans swarmed towards the group. The native guides and middlemen were a shock to those unprepared for the reality of Egypt. Their voices were raised offering their services in broken English all promising the best deals and claiming to know tombs not readily available, secret alley-ways where the best antiques could be purchased at unbelievable bargains and offering to die rather then let harm before their employers. And perhaps some of them were even telling the truth. The professional travel agents from Thomas Cook and son were moving the lucky few through the crowd, driving the Dragomans before them with gesture of words. Fulfilling their function of getting their customers and their luggage safely through the mob to their hotel where vastly more expensive but generally only slightly more reliable Dragomans would be waiting for them.“A first sip of the Nile sir.” A dirty bottle with dirty water was thrust at him. One sip of that and he would spend the next week ill in bed. He knew, he’d sipped it that first time he stepped of a boat into Alexandra a green kid all those years ago.“Bugger off” He snarled in Arabic, accented Arabic it was true, but Arabic. The Dragoman stepped back in surprise before smartly turning on his heel and peddling his wares elsewhere.Kenton kept his eye open, looking for someone, something. And there was the little fella now. He knew all about the boy, could tell you his life story even though he’d never even seen him before. A look out kid. A watcher for one of the many pick pockets that preyed on the rich tourists. Looking for the easy mark, looking for the bumbling tourist fat with money who’d not taken proper precautions, their wallets bulging, ripe for the taking. But not today. Kenton stepped smartly up to the boy. A scruffy looking boy, a real urchin, cute enough to melt the heart of the sternest matron, but to the experienced eye he lacked the malnourished bones of a true orphan of the street.“You speak English?” he asked.The boy nodded. “No Dragoman, No Dragoman, Dragomans.” He said in English, waving to encompassing the horde of Dragomans that had moved off following the tourists.“You’re hired. One job. Take me into the Waha, I wish to go to the Qahwa behind the Fountain of Alexander.”The boy tried to hide his shock and fear and failed.“No Dragoman, Bad part of town. Hire Dragomans. Go nice hotel. Bad part of town.” He waved at the mob that was disappearing in the distance.“I have an appointment with Apep.” Kenton’s tone was flat and calm.The boy blanched. Argument over. The name, his passport to the underworld had worked. Now let’s hope the passport was metaphorical, not literal. The horse drawn carriage had drawn to a halt outside a dark and easily overlooked alleyway. The boy looked nervous even though this was his territory. The Driver looked scared.Kenton tossed them two Egyptian pounds. Far over the odds, but they deserved a bonus and where he was going he might lose the need for money forever. He hoped of the carriage and walked down the small alleyway. Nobody stopped him. Sure they’d seen him but getting in was easy, it was getting out alive that required a miracle.He emerged from the passage way into a dusty square, the fountain of ‘Alexander’ nothing but a broken and rusted wreck, who know who had really had it built. A number of doors lined the small courtyard. His destination lay on the other side of the door. It stood shut, heavy wood and iron studs as old as Cairo he was once told. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The smell hit him before his foot hit the ground. The pungent smell of ma’assil, tobacco and molasses, burnt in the hookah pipe. Another deep breath and the rest of the smells filled his nose. Hashish burnt in the pipes; no undercurrent of opium, not here anyway; coffee, strong and powerful; Egyptian tea strong enough to melt steel; sweat; fear and blood, so much blood. Or was the last simply his imagination and memory. It was dark and grim, a single room with a central stove and counter. No upper class coffee house this. No airy middle courtyard, no fountain cooling the air, no tree spreading peace and shade. If it had once been decorated in the traditional bright colours it had long since been covered by smoke and the sawdust on the floor were clumps of sticky blackness.It was crowded, as always. Egyptians at every table, old style turbans not a Turkish fez amongst them. Ancient, brass and glass hookah pipes on a bewildering variety of designs were dotted within easy reach of every customer. The favourite drink was Egyptian tea served hot in glasses not cups. It had a bitter taste that no amount of sugar could remove, a taste Kenton had never managed to acquire. The Egyptians claimed the worse the Qawha, the better the tea, so did this place serve the best tea in all of Egypt? Games of Mankaleh played with sets so old they looked like they outdated Kenton’s country, hell they probably outdated England. Played on tables where groves had been worn for the pieces by the endless games. Games played to keep the hands busy while the mouth chatted. Everyone distracted, everyone busy. Except those who simply looked busy. He’d seen them. Their hands had dropped beneath the table, reaching for knives or pistols. Subtly keeping an eye on him they waited. An unrecognised European was a walking corpse. Everybody else carried on chatting and playing, why even notice his presence when he’d be dead within seconds.Kenton’s eyes scanned the room, desperately searching. Looking for someone, anyone he recognised. Time was running out and running out swiftly. There! As if he’d never left. Bent down at first, he’d stood up and turned round. He looked at Kenton. Surprising crossing his eyes before a frown chased it away. He spoke loudly.“James, it’s been a long time.”Across the room, knives slid back into sheaths and pistols were placed back into holsters. Relief flooding through him, Kenton made his way across the qahwa towards the bar. Saleem, the qahwagi of this coffee shop, looked like he’d never aged a day in all the years Kenton had been gone. Bald, smiling, showing a mouth of shining gold, a delicate maze of crows feet around his eyes that made you trust him, his eyes as cold as death. A dirty cloth in his hand, perhaps the same dirty cloth over all these years. The polished shining sarabantina kept the water ever boiling, its brass gleaming like all the death and violence of this place never even touched it. Its hissing and bubbling seemed to say ‘welcome back’ to Kenton’s tired ears.“A drink for you. On the house.” Saleem said, pulling a coffee cup from under the counter. If Kenton had walked on water the Egyptians nearest to him would have been less shocked. On the House? Inconceivable!“It depends. I need to see Apep as soon as possible. I’ll take the drink if I’ve got time.” The Egyptians moved away from this mad man. Nobody knew how the qahwagi would react to having his free cup of coffee rejected, this being the first time this event had happened. But nobody asked to see Apep, summoned by yes, sent to yes, asked no. Even Saleem appeared to be less then certain as to what to do.“We’ll see.” Saleem never moved and Kenton sat for an eternity, waiting for an answer. He know better than to ask again. Suddenly an non-descript door near the back swung open, a single dull oil lamp burning illuminated a heavy black velvet curtain.Saleem simply nodded. Kenton stood up, took a deep breath and walked into the alcove, he pulled the door shut behind him before pushing the curtain to one side and entering.The back room was small and dark. A circle of dimly flickering oil lamps in front of him were the only light source. No other details could be made out. Kenton, familiar with the routine, entered the circle of light and lowered himself into a pile of opulent gold and silk pillows. He could now see a figure in a chair seated outside the circle. It was hard to see details save that he was fat, grossly fat, unthinkably fat. Kenton struggled to work out if he’d got fatter over the years or if the shock was simply faded memories. Apep, named after the crocodile god of Ancient Egypt who was the enemy of every sun god, undisputed ruler of the Cairo thieves guild.“Kenton.” The voice was deep, rumbling and slow. “You’ve aged well. Your eye?”“Recent and I’m still hoping it’ll heal.”“Good.” A fat hand moved closer to the light, it was shockingly pure albino white. Its sausage fingers adorned with gold and diamonds in extravagant quantity. It lifted a golden goblet back into the darkness, the noise of drinking followed before it was set back down again. Kenton steeled himself, time to talk turkey.“I’m in trouble, lots of it and I need some help. And I need to settle things once and forever with D’Huberres but I don’t just need him dead, I need information and lots of it. I know you’ll help me.” Kenton left the unspoken hanging in the air. Because you owe me and owe me big.“This is troublesome. The people D’Huberres is working for have with most generous payment gained freedom from interference from my people. Our silence has also been brought as well as the deaths of people who intrude on their affairs.” With glacial slowness the words were released from Apep mouth. The path of each one slowly grinding the remaining hope from Kenton and leaving him dry mouthed. Kenton sat perfectly still. Any swift movement now and his death would follow from behind in the dark. The how was a mystery of the dark. But its effectiveness had been proved time and time again. Mistaking Apep for a defenceless fat man was a mistake people only got to make once. An age later the fat man spoke again.“But the thieves guild remembers its friends and you have been a good friend in the past.” These words of hope and life were delivered in the same measured tone that Apep always spoke in. Kenton breathed again.“Go to the one my people call Qebhsenuf.” Kenton mind raced. Qebhsenuf, name seemed familiar. Some kind of ancient god. Guardian of the dead, hawk headed. No not guardian of the dead, guardian of the organs of the dead. He tried to remember all the times he’d been listening to the latest European women rattle on about Egyptian gods feigning an interest to get her into bed.“He has crossed paths with D’Huberres before and lived. He thinks he has no quarrel with the Frenchman but if the works of D’Huberres be exposed to the light Qebhsenuf would see that they stand opposed. And while you walk under the Qebhsenuf’s shadow my people will not touch you.”Without a noise, without a cause, the oil lamps that illuminated Kenton suddenly disappeared and at the same moment others by the door appeared fully lit. They did not flare into life, nor build from a spark. In a single moment the darkness and the light swapped places. Another mystery of the dark. Kenton stood, his interview was over.A lot less then he hoped when got of the plane that morning. A lot more then he’d feared a few scant seconds ago. He reached the door, his hand pulling back the curtain when, shockingly, Apep spoke again. Apep never ever spoke to anyone not in the circle of light.“Kenton, it is less then you deserve but it is all I will give you. May Allah stand with you. I will not.”As Kenton passed though the door he realised that Apep was scared and just how much trouble that meant he was in.Kenton stood at the street corner and checked the scrap of paper again. Not what he’d been expecting. He checked it again. He’d emerged from the back room to have this address thrust into his hand along with a hundred Egyptian pounds. He’d quickly left, his welcome now well gone. No matter how many times he checked the address, this was the right address. With a name like the Qebhsenuf his thoughts as he left Apep behind were filled with a steely eyed son of the desert based in some dingy back street café, as mysterious and as deadly as the desert wind. But he found himself right in the middle of the European quarter, all well maintained houses and clean straight streets. The fact that it had an address in this city of wandering streets that twisted and turned like a belly dancer before a rich widower should have told him his expectations were well off. He half thought that Apep was having a joke at his expense, but since Apep had no sense of humour that was unlikely.Nothing ventured, nothing gained he thought as he smoothed down his newly purchased suit of immaculate white cotton, cut in the latest style, matching Panama hat to finish the look. Some might consider it an extravagance but he had learned long ago that a certain class of Egyptian responded much better to a man of neat appearance. While the rest tended to give a man with a well maintained fire arm the same level of respect, and that was the bulge in the right hand suit pocket. Recently purchased from the street of Gunsmiths with Apep’s money. A fact he’d dropped in to the bargain to ensure a good weapon, not some sand blasted Great War relic.Well, the paper said round the back, up the stairs, the green door. What any European would have called number six. House numbers never being a particularly strong point of the Egyptians who claimed to have trouble remembering street names, preferring to offer instruction based on where the Uncle Ali had his stall of fine merchandise. Kenton knocked sharply twice and waited. The door was opened by a curious fellow who failed to meet a single one of Kenton’s expectations but for who the name Qebhsenuf suddenly seemed so very, very understandable.He was a smallish European man, looked about forty, all whipcord muscle and weather beaten skin. He was simply dressed in trousers and shirt with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a pair of undone braces resting on his shoulders. His hair was cropped short and noticeably starting to recede despite the severity of the hair cut. He was clean shaven but running to stubble right now. His left ear lob was missing, old scar tissue showing where it had once been. His face was plain, but his eyes were a feature. One blazing emerald green and the other an ice clear blue, a feature that would have dominated any other face. But all this was noticed afterwards once Kenton found the will power to tear his eyes away from the man’s long, angular, harsh, pointy and, if one were feeling charitable, beak like nose.“Hallo.” His accent was some sort of regional English but Kenton had never really managed to figure them out.“Are you Qebhsenuf?” Kenton asked somewhat hesitantly. It seemed almost rude to use the nickname at this point, or with a nose like this was Qebhsenuf as good as a nickname got? The beak nosed man started laughing.“Only that bugger Apep and his boys call me that. Name’s Peter Outhwaite, friends call me Pete. What can I do you for?” An amused tone of voice.Kenton stood amazed, any man who called Apep, the Pharaoh of the dark and lord of the Egyptian underworld, a ‘bugger’ with nothing but joviality in his voice was not a man to scare easily.“Apep told me to come to you, he said you might be able to help.” The small Englishman raised an eyebrow at that but opened the door further and waved Kenton in. A small apartment kitchen, bedroom and lounge all rolled into one, recently painted, it was a mix of European and Egyptian, curious only in this city in that it showed restraint and taste. A small desk sat in one corner under a window. Books piled high on and around it. The bed was a pile of crumpled sheets with a long, smooth, well rounded, very feminine, Arabic leg sticking out of it. Outhwaite dropped himself into an armchair, while Kenton lowered himself into the settee he noticed with amusement would had matched Mrs Merriweather décor almost perfectly.“Do you want a drink?”Kenton nodded.“Anadil, hey Anadil yer lazy cow, get us a cuppa.”The crumpled sheet moved and slowly turned into a young, highly attractive Egyptian women with sleepy eyes who, wrapped in the sheet, made her way over to boil the kettle. As she filled the kettle behind them Kenton leaned forwards.“Look, this is pretty confidential stuff and even without Apep giving me any real choice I’m still unhappy about telling you let alone your lady, is there anywhere we can go to speak privately.” he said in a low tone of voice. Another amused grin from Outhwaite, not the expected reaction.“No need to bother about that lad. See, young Andy there is…” His words were cut short by a shrill screech. Both Outhwaite and Kenton moved.Kenton’s hand dropped to his pocket. Fingers curling around the butt. Up and out. Eyes darting, looking for danger. Outhwaite moving as well. Diving, rolling, a gun from somewhere. Under the table! Both guns snapped up into position. Kenton’s gun taking the chequered flag but only by a second, maybe less. The thought ‘I’m still injured’ flashed defensively across part of Kenton brain for a brief second before vanishing under the adrenaline surge. The high pitched scream ended.“Uncle Kenton!”The girl started moving towards Kenton, looking like she was going to dive on him, but she suddenly stopped short as she saw the two pistols levelled at her. There was a tense pause and then Outhwaite and Kenton started speaking together their voices filled with questioning tones.“Andy?” said Kenton“Uncle Kenton?” said Outhwaite.They both stared at each other for a second, before smiling and putting their guns down. Kenton stood up and looked the lady over.“Little Andy?” His tone more confident. She nodded smiling. “You’ve certainly... grown.” She suddenly looked embarrassed to be wearing nothing but a sheet and flitted behind an intricate carved wooden screen in the corner of the room.“Well that would make you the great Mr Kenton. I’m sorry I never recognised you but from her description I expected some ten foot tall Adonis with lightning crackling around him.” Outhwaite’s tone was sardonically amused, till a long lobbing throw from Andy caught him square in the face with a pair of her unmentionables.Andy emerged from behind the screen, dressed simply a mix of European and Arabic that could just pass for both without scandalising the Arab too much. Looking even better then before. For once Kenton’s libido failed to respond to a stunning women. Looking carefully at her, Kenton could see the face of that child he’d saved all those years ago. How much of his life had flowed from unwittingly saving Apep’s niece was a matter left to the philosophers.Kenton smiled to himself. Lots of things now fitted into place, why Apep would send him to Outhwaite, why no member of the thieves guild would touch Outhwaite and why Outhwaite could be expected to help a man in such a desperate situation. But then doubt crept in, did he have it the wrong way round? Maybe Andy was with Outhwaite simply because he was not scared of Apep? Only a man the thieves guild would never touch could sleep with the Pharaohs of the dark’s niece? And maybe he was just the kind of man who would help a desperate person? But above all, Apep would never placed his niece in danger, which made Outhwaite capable of handling something that scared Apep. A terrifying thought.“I suppose I’d better tell you why I came to you.”“Reckon you had. Tell me all and spare me no details. From the look on Andy’s face I’m in this now no matter how bad it is, so you’d better tell me everything.”Kenton reached into his pocket and pulled out a Camel. He offered them to Outhwaite.“No thanks. Gave them up in the trenches, killed too many men while they smoked to ever feel comfortable lighting up myself.”The kettle whistle blew and Andy started pouring the tea.“But start with whatever happened to your eye Uncle Kenton!”Which made the telling all the easier.The sky was black as finest ebony set with diamonds more beautiful then Solomon himself had ever seen. Stretching as far as the eye could see, not a cloud obscured the glory that was the Cairo sky at night. Not a single gas light obscured an ounce of its glory in this neighbourhood. Which was just the way Kenton liked it. He lay there, letting the cool night air wash over his body, cooling and healing his body and soul. The other roofs were empty tonight, the locals only needed to do it in high summer and the tourists would never think of it. So there was just him and the stars. The only way. He’d given up trying to explain this to women years ago and so no longer bothered waking them up whenever they shared his bed.Outhwaite was a curious man. Able to arrange this house at a moment’s notice, for a bargain price without using a Dragoman. And no white man ever got anywhere in this city without using a guide, that was an immutable law. His Arabic was better then Kenton’s even if his, he now know it to be, Yorkshire accent did make it sound strange. Smart and perceptive too, asking all the right questions.But hopefully not smart and perceptive enough. Kenton had hidden some information from Outhwaite and Andy, like all good liars he’d mixed the ash of lies with the honey of truth. Dodged round what he’d been doing for British Intelligence before this affair blew up. Made the dead double out to be no big deal, not really tricky. Talked about his confusion over the whole affair, mostly genuine as well, explained his decision to bail when it became clear that Archibald was treating him like a sacrificial pawn, not the rook in this game he’d been promised. His decision to take the amulet, a spur of the moment thing when opportunity presented itself to him. The sudden appearance of D’Huberres in his tale drew an exchange of glances between Andy and Outhwaite. He detailed his trick with the sovereign, pulling the medallion out of his jacket to show them, the gunfight, the escape, the attack from the air and how it drove home Archibald’s opinions of his value. The death of Charlotte, pulled out of his grasp by the surging currents and his decision to come to Egypt.Why Egypt? The need to know the who, the why and the whatever behind why somebody with his face was gunned down on a beach near Liverpool. The need to know why one minute Archibald was dancing a jig over owning the medallion, the next leaving it lying around so he could lift it and the moment after that trying to send it to the bottom of the sea. Knowing that D’Huberres would run back to Egypt like he always did and knowing that in Cairo he’d have the friends so he’d be the one calling the shots not D’Huberres nor Sir Archibald - an idea that had failed to survive even the first day.As he lay there staring at the stars drifting off to sleep memories began to mix with dreams. Killing his first man and seeing the life drain from his face. Hot coffee cooked off the engine of his armed car just over the Belgian border. Losing his virginity to an ancient Parisian whore too drunk to take his money. Charlotte’s face as she sank beneath the waves crying for her mother as salt water washed into her throat. Seeing the medallion for the first time, a long time ago and not in an English boarding house. A coffee house in Zanzibar, shaking as he read a document that managed to take his innocence forever. A wooden box and golden lock opened by the heart’s blood of a bull, the lock drinking the blood deeply before opening to show... Running across the sand. Light of the moon. Heart pounding in chest. Distant explosions, far behind... Back exploding into agony. Collapsing, coughing, lungs filling. The realisation of the futility of the acts of man as he stood in a primordial cathedral of stone seeing the grandeur the nature could create without effort dwarf the twisted metal remains of a monument to mankind’s hubris. Seeing himself walk away, leaving him still born on the cold floor shivering and unable to move. A whirling dance of masked figures each wearing Kenton’s face pulled into a grinning smile and whispering his name again and again. And sleep claimed him and who could tell where memories ended and dreams began?He awoke as the noon sun beat down on Cairo and nobody moved. Fortunately he’d managed to wake up enough to get to bed last night or right now he’d be burned to a crisp. A cold shower, a lunch of fruit and, come the relative coolness of the afternoon sun, Kenton was ready to face Cairo again. There was a knock on the door. Gun up, back to the wall next to the door. He inched the door open. A small Arab urchin looked up at him. He thrust a small piece of paper into Kenton’s hand and then waited patiently.Kenton opened it. The penmanship was scruffy.‘Got a break. Have found someone willing to talk about your business. Eight o’clock my place. Send replay with my messenger. Don’t tip him. Outhwaite.’James searched his pockets for a pen. Not finding one he looked up to see the urchin holding out a broken pencil stub. Kenton quickly jotted ‘Fine’ on the back before handing paper and pencil back to the urchin. They both vanished somewhere on the urchin’s body and the hand reappeared waiting for his tip.“No tip. Outhwaite says so.”“Fair ‘nough lad. Can’t blame me for trying.” Outhwaite board accent coming from the child was a shock. The boy ran off leaving Kenton laughing to himself. Leaving Kenton at liberty to sit and relax for the first time since leaving Mrs Merriweather’s boarding house. But caged tigers don’t relax and Kenton simply paced back and forth across the flat, pondering getting out in Cairo and getting the feel of the place in his blood but rejecting it as too risky until it was time to leave and make his way to Outhwaite’s.Kenton and Outhwaite descended the stairs to the meeting place. A fake quiahib not far from Outhwaite’s house. It was fake because it was European. Run by a European for Europeans. A pale imitation of the real thing. Perfect for bloodless tourists who might find a real brush with a Quahib too unnerving. It lacked more then anything an authentic smell and, no matter how good she was, no belly dancer, her hips gyrating to the music could change that. And she wasn’t even that good. Kenton hated the place, it offended him, everything it represented offended him. They made their way across the room, heading towards some booths at the back.“These guys really wanted to met us here?” His tone said it all. How could anybody who frequented this kind of place be any use to them?Outhwaite looked over at him.“You’ve got to admit that D’Huberres is going to be lacking ears in a place like this. Might be cleverer than you think. Just give them a fair listening to.” Outhwaite’s tone warned Kenton that something was not quite right a moment too late. Outhwaite turned and indicated a corner booth. A round table, a cheap gaudy modern Hookah pipe sitting in the middle of it. The booth was deep in shadows which made getting any details on who was waiting for him all the more difficult, all he could see was that two Europeans, their features lost, were waiting for them. The hands curled around there coffee cups were slightly pinkish, the early signs of sun burn.“I think it’s time we had a long talk, tried to clear things up between us. Don’t you?” said a familiar voice.Kenton looked stunned. He looked, horrified, at Outhwaite. Who replied with a shrug.“Sorry my friend, I owe him a lot of favours. More then I care to imagine. Came by first thing this morning.”“Don’t worry he’s not sold you down the river. Quite the opposite. We’ve given our ministry minders the slip tonight.”Eventually Kenton spoke.“How?” His tone spoke volumes - how, how have you found me?The duo leaned into the light. The shadows resolved into the all too familiar features of Taylor and Morris.“Because there are times when Taylor amazes even me. Won’t you sit down?”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 11The Street of Ouled NaolsBy Stuart StansfieldSergeant Taylor let out a low, breathy whistle and placed his stubby pencil on the qahwa table. He stared, dumbfounded at the words he’d written in his notebook. As his mind wandered, his eyes focused on some imaginary point in space above the page, blurring his cramped script into illegible patterns and spirals. Finally he rose out of his trance and looked across at his chief.Inspector Morris was sitting alongside him, hunched over the table in silent reflection. Slowly, the older man allowed his steepled fingers to slide down his face to his chin, and fixed his now open eyes on the American. After what seemed an age, he spoke: “Frankly, Mr. Kenton, I find this very hard to believe”James Kenton looked across at his interrogators. He was getting a headache. Somehow he’d managed to get dust beneath his eye patch, aggravating the recent wound. His remaining healthy eye, unused to taking the strain of being his sole ocular device, was beginning to ache dully. The sickly sweet smoke encompassing the room and the pounding rhythms of the alatiya, clumsily playing their instruments in the corner, were not helping matters.Kenton snapped back in exasperation, “LOOK!”Peter Outhwaite laid a gentle, warning hand on Kenton’s forearm. Kenton stopped, and followed his new friend’s glances around the room. Here was not the place to get angry.Morris spoke again. “I do not say you lie, James.” It was the first time Morris had used Kenton’s first name. There was a calm sincerity to his words, and a conveyed sense of understanding. The Inspector’s voice was quiet, yet cut through the tacky, westernised Egyptian percussion which accompanied the woeful belly-dancing display. Morris continued: “Simply that your tale is hard for us to take in. Even with near exact doubles, dubious governmental interference and foreign assassins! Sergeant.”At Morris’ command Taylor flicked open his notebook. He began to recite elements of Kenton’s tale.“So, whilst engaged on ahem ‘work’ in Zanzibar,”“Black market smuggling, Sergeant.” Kenton interceded, helpfully, a look of slight derision on his face.“ you were asked to meet a certain wog, umm Indian gentleman, who never gave his name, and his accomplices. He wanted you to perform a bit of work. You had the connections, the experience, and would look a whole lot more palatable than a bunch of Johnny-Turbans running around near Liverpool.”“Yes. And they asked me to find this pendant, and the box.” Kenton said quietly, eyes staring at some fixed point in space.“And ultimately aid some conspiracy to undermine the very Empire, as we are led to believe,” Morris used, with just a hint of sarcasm. “How much were you promised?”“Ten thousand pounds. Mostly in uncut Burmese rubies and Ceylonese sapphires.” Kenton answered, almost nonchalantly. “Christ almighty!” Taylor spat out a mouthful of coffee. “It’d take me well over twenty years to earn that amount!” Morris was less interested in his partner’s fiscal affairs, however, and pressed the American further. “They must have believed all that superstition. What of Sir Archibald and his cronies?”Kenton repeated the tale he had told them earlier. “The British government? Well, we’d run into each other in the past. Ministry agents latched onto me, and forced me into a meeting with Sir Archibald, and the other fellow, Wilson.” Kenton smiled grimly as he remembered the occasion. “I was persuaded to help them in their enquiries, and told that it would not be prudent to refuse”“I can well imagine.” Morris conceded, as he remembered the ruthlessness with which the Ministry had apparently conducted operations in the Irish Sea. He moved a hand began to massage his tired eyes. He’d never travelled this far before, and the whole escapade had thrown him out of sorts. He was hot, bothered and so very tired. The warm Cairene air had started to dull his senses, and he could not afford to let his mental faculties slip away from him on this night. Wearily, he continued:“And this manuscript you read, that detailed this box, what was its name again?“I can’t remember many of the details. But it was called something like the Wil-” Kenton thought for a moment, but he couldn’t fully remember the name. Williams? Wilforth? Whitworth?“Wilmarth.” Morris finished for him. “Yes, that was the name mentioned on the scrap of paper we found on the beach. Possibly a fragment. I think it would be useful if we could find a copy... Then, and I mean no disrespect Mr. Kenton, we might know more about what we’re dealing with here”Outhwaite, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, scratched his stubbly chin for a second, and then addressed his companions: “I might be able to help. I know a man who is experienced in these matters,”The others turned to him expectantly. Outhwaite seemed amused by the sudden attention, and ran a hand through his lank hair before continuing.“He’s a lecturer at the Al-Azhar University, near the markets,” he added, by way of an explanation. “Although a Mussulman, he has certain other interests, in more esoteric matters, you understand. From what you’ve said about this group, and their goals, there is a chance he might have heard of this book, or whatever it is, or know of some bloke who has.”A ray of hope shone weakly upon the four men sat in the booth. “Now, Peter, how would you, in your line of work, be knowing a Mussulman holy man?” Morris asked pointedly, a facetious smile breaking across his face.“Only Allah is perfect, Inspector,” Outhwaite shrugged, giving his companions a wry, winning smile. “Certain ancient academic and theological texts are markedly difficult and expensive to obtain. He recognises my abilities as an honest procurer of literary works.”Taylor gave short laugh in reply, and took a slurp of his foul coffee. To Outhwaite’s great amusement, the Detective Sergeant had given up on the tea he ordered earlier. Tea in Egypt was not the last solace of the Englishman that Taylor had so desired when he entered the qahwa.“He owes me a favour, I reckon,” Outhwaite continued, and glanced towards the Inspector, who had pulled out a tobacco pouch, and started to fill his pipe.Morris nodded his consent. “Fine. Better we know a bit more about what we’re bloody dealing with before we go up against the Frenchmen and his oriental friends. We need all the help we can get.”“Right,” Outhwaite agreed, as he stood, absentmindedly scratching one of his heavily tanned, sinewy arms as he did so. “I’ll arrange a meeting, and come by for you later, James. I should be there by 10 o’clock, at the latest.” He gave another one of his enigmatic smiles. “Should mean the buggers have finished their praying.”Morris brushed errant shreds of Mild Black Cavendish and Kentucky Burley off of the table and back into his tobacco pouch, before answering: “Taylor, you go back with Kenton, and stay there till I come and get you.”“Where are you off to, sir?” Taylor inquired. The eyes of Kenton and Outhwaite held the same question.Morris paused in tamping down the tobacco in his old briar, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “To see an old friend.”Alphonse D’Huberres was standing on the balcony of their safe house, taking in the night air. His body still ached horribly after his beating at the hands of the Ministry. He allowed himself a small smile. Archibald- a stupid name- was dead. As was Wilson. No one crossed D’Huberres and lived. Suddenly, he blinked. Every muscle in D’Huberre’s body tensed. The sweet smell of Katrina’s perfume drifted on the warm evening air, overpowering even the pungent smoke from his clove cigarettes. He could sense her presence behind him.“I’m going out, my darling Alphonse. To see what His Majesty’s constabulary and your friend Monsieur Kenton are up to. And to speak with our friends.” Her voice was as smooth as silk.He turned to face her, wincing as he did so. His shoulder was no longer dislocated, but torn muscle was still healing around the joint. The Frenchman stared into her eyes for but a second, then tore his gaze away. No. Stronger men than he had fallen to her spell. He started to speak, but Katrina placed a smooth, elegant finger across his lips. “No, my dear. You must rest, if you are to gain your strength,” she said, coquettishly, her finger sliding down from his lips, across his strong chin, and onto his chest.Then she was gone.D’Huberres turned back to the street. After ten seconds, Katrina appeared beneath him, walking out into the street below. He watched her stride away from him for a good thirty seconds, taking in all aspects of her lithe, seductive form as she moved into the crowds. Then he was decided.“Merde” D’Huberres stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the stone balcony rail, and picked up his jacket from the back of a nearby chair. He took one glance about the room, and then left.And walked down to follow her, into Cairene night.“Morris! Laddie! How’ve ye been?”Morris hardly had time to reply as his hand was grasped in a vice-like grip. Staring across at his greeter, he felt his eyes mist slightly, and he returned the handshake with relish. He was practically pulled through the doorway and into the house of an old friend, before he fully had time to appraise the man in front of him.Joseph ‘Bimbashi’ McPherson had aged greatly since Morris had last seen his old friend and mentor. He must have been nearly seventy now, yet age had not dimmed that bright spark in his eyes, or his strength of character. McPherson had been a keen athlete in his youth, and there was hardly an inch of fat on his lean body. Some muscle had naturally weakened with passing years, but he remained taught and strong.The lines of his face were still hard, his features purposeful and resolute, and although his hairline had receded, a full crop of thin silver-grey covered his head.Morris, after all the trials and tribulations of the past few weeks, breathed an inward sigh of relief. Even if for just a few minutes, the cares of world could be set aside.They sat on McPherson’s veranda, in comfortable old wicker chairs, a long drink in their hands. Beyond them lay the vista of Medieval Cairo. The landscape had changed dramatically in a few short hours. Where in the day the shmabolic buildings of this ancient city glared brightly in the sun, swathes of white, cream, russet and ochre, at dusk they took on a different hue. Shades of blue, violet and purple, formed the cityscape, punctuated by a thousand pin-pricks of warm orange light which shone in arched windows, portals to the private world of a million Cairene lives.Neither of them spoke. Just drank and smoked in peace.McPherson had listened to Morris’ tale for a good half an hour. He was an attentive listener, and waited on his old friend’s every word. Now he pondered on its meanings and secrets. Finally, he spoke.“I’m sorry, but Wakely was your man for that,” McPherson sighed, smoothing his bushy moustache. “Even if he was an untalkative bugger. Being an ex-Commisioner of Police in India gives you certain advantages in these affairs, as I’m sure you realise.”Morris nodded, and took a stronger than usual suck on his pipe. It was as he’d feared. But McPherson continued.“As to this group you speak of, well, I’m afraid I know nothing. There have been some strange foreign buggers wandering around Cairo, though. Fucking French mostly.”Morris’ ears pricked, and he jerked forward. Sadly, none of them matched the descriptions of their mysterious Frenchman. In this post-war and post-revolutionary world, the British and French secret services found that they were once again sparring partners, particularly in the Colonial sphere. And particularly in Egypt. Morris made a few scribbled notes in his notebook, and turned back to his friend.“So, as far as I see it,” he sighed, as he took the pipe stem out of his mouth, We have two options. We either let D’Huberres and his friends find us, or we try and retake the initiative.Bimbashi McPherson nodded. “But it ain’t that easy in a city of God knows how many of these heathen buggers. You need information. Numbers, names, hideouts, links for these fiends. It’s the same as London, man: you need someone who can help, probably in the Criminal Underworld, some snitch who needs your help or money.”“I’m sure Taylor and Outhwaite have connections, but they won’t say. I’m not sure I can blame them, to be honest,” Morris replied. McPherson snorted briefly when he heard the name of Outhwaite, but he seemed to agree with the Inspector. “Crime here is run by one man. An albino fellow named Apep. Named after an Egyptian God. Pretentious as hell, but a bit more imaginative than ‘Big Mick’, eh?” McPherson laughed heartily. They’d both run into Fenians in the past. He wiped a rheumy, watery eye, and then continued. “He’s ruthless as hell, but careful, too. He took over not too long after I’d left the Service. If I only had a fraction of the resources I had when I was working for the service…”“Still at it, Joe?” Morris inquired, a kind smile on his face. Bimbashi McPherson used to head the British. Secret Service in Cairo. He had retired over ten years ago.McPherson nodded tiredly. “Aye. Some freelance work, but I’m too old to be active, and trawling the streets, which is what it needs. Providing the odd bit of help to His Majesty’s minions also, which they normally ignore - stupid lot. All the worst kind of Public School boys, spindly, weak, scared of the sun, and none of them handy with a cudgel. Used to be a time when old school tie meant something! You were forged on the rugger fields of Eton, not the bloody cricket pitch. These Arab thugs respect you a lot more once you’ve bashed a few heads.” Morris laughed. Joseph McPherson had changed little in the years since he’d seen him last. McPherson turned towards him, and said “I can work on it, but it’ll take days.” “We don’t have that kind of time, I’m afraid, Joe.” Morris replied, and Bimbashi McPherson sank back into his private thoughts. He remained in a form of concentrated contemplation for about a minute. Then, the old man’s posture changed. He seemed to have come to some inward decision, banishing whatever demons he’d been arguing with to reach a resolution.“If you want answers try this, laddie.” He scrawled a name and an address on a piece of paper, and handed it to Morris. “He runs the most risky bit of Apep’s operations, and is the most likely to squeal. We’ve been working on him for a couple of years.” Morris accepted the paper and took in the name and address.McPherson looked mutely across the Cairene night sky. “He’s our best link to Apep. His vice is prostitution. Or white slavery, to be more exact. The government don’t mind the buggers killing each other, but if they lay one hand on an English rose,” he stopped, and snorted in derision. “Crime against Europeans normally brings the harshest penalties, looks good in the newspapers.” For all his bluster and cursing, Joseph McPherson was a man who loved his adopted country and all it’s people and customs.Morris realised what this gesture would mean. If this man was Bimbashi’s best link, then as soon as he and Taylor had pressed the squeal, flushed him into the open, McPherson’s private war against Apep would crumble to dust. He moved to hand the paper back to McPherson.“No laddie, keep it. Time to cash in the pension, I reckon. I’ve led a good life, and it seems to me that these boys you’re after are far more of a bunch of bastards than some fat albino Cairene.”“Thanks Joe” Morris whispered as he gratefully took McPherson’s hand. “We’ll pay him a visit.”“No problem. I’ll supply you with a couple of boys to help you out. Big Nubian buggers, too! Right, laddie, you go break some heads.”“Is it wise to let Kenton and that Yorkshireman go off on his own, sir? I mean, Christ, we’ve come halfway across the bloody world to find him, lucky enough that we managed to achieve that, if you ask me, sir, and then you let him bugger off with that beaky nosed northerner, who we hardly bloody know, who might as soon be.”“Taylor?” Morris interrupted the run of Taylor’s diatribe.“Sir,?” “Shut up.” Morris was trying to light his pipe with some substandard matches he picked up at a local stall, and failing miserably. As another match flared into life, only to die almost as quickly, he flung the box onto the dusty street floor, and turned angrily upon his accomplice.“Damn it, Taylor, do you take me for a complete moron?!”“No sir.” Taylor bowed his head and turned his frustration on a particularly large beetle which was scurrying across his path. “Outhwaite owes me a favour. No, Sergeant,” he added, seeing the look on Taylor’s face, “I don’t completely trust him. But if anything happens, help will be but a second away. We simply don’t have the time or the bodies necessary to try to keep together, even if we wished to. And we can’t spend our time bloody well nurse-maiding him, I’ll leave that to a friend of mine.”Taylor let the matter drop. “So, guv, if they’re doing the library work, what are we doing? And, sir,” his voice became a whisper, “are you sure we can trust the Darkies?”Morris and Taylor turned around to look at their companions, who had paused a few yards behind them. As if on cue both men smiled, great ivory half moons on their ebony faces. They were well over six feet tall, and of solid, muscular build. Bimbashi McPherson had clothed them in European working clothes - heavy cloth trousers and shirt, scuffed boots. It’d have been a miracle if he’d been able to get any jacket over their barrel-like chests.Taylor shuddered as he remembered the story Morris had told him, about how this likely pair came to work for Bimbashi McPherson. They were brothers, and from a village far to the south. Their sister had been kidnapped, and forced to work in the Apep’s brothels, satisfying fat Europeans who wanted something a bit exotic. They had travelled to Cairo, and met up with McPherson, who as a Freelance detective was trying to close some of the brutal dens of iniquity down. Eventually, they had found their sister, and rescued her from the vile trade. Taylor had asked what had happened to the brothel owner in question. One of the men had broken into his wide smile, opened his shirt, and pulled out a mummified body part, held on a leather thong around his neck Oh Christ“I said, Taylor, if you’d gratify me with your bloody attention,” Morris snapped, pulling him out his recollections, “that Bimbashi is an old friend of mine. Now come on. We’d better get a move on.”They walked for about three-quarters of an hour, through the evening Cairene streets. The oppressive bustle of the day had died down in this quarter, but the streets were still teeming with life. Or low-life, Morris thought, grimly.Then the Inspector stopped. He took out the scrap of paper that McPherson had given him, and stuck a match so that he could better see its contents. Satisfied, he used the last flickers of flame to burn the piece of paper, and flung it into the dust. He turned to his left. A lone, narrow side street stretched off into the darkness. This was it.Kenton hadn’t been to Cairo in years. He’d guessed that come late evening, the market street of Sharia Muski would have quietened somewhat, that the overbearing bustle of the morning and late afternoon would have been replaced by the more sedate traffic of the Cairene night. For the past twenty minutes he’d been reminded just how wrong he was. The Khan el Khalili, the bazaar of all bazaars, knew of no official trading hours, or of any government legislation to enforce them.Walking down the Sharia Muski which ran south the Khan el Khalili was an experience that would remain with the traveller for rest of his days. Theoretically, the bazaar itself only existed north of the road, but the vendors were ignorant of such theoretical boundaries. The real mercantile centre lay amid the teeming back streets, which ran off the Sharia Muski, but any merchant worth his salt recognised the value of having a stall on this busy artery of travel.Only in the trenches had Kenton born witness to such a similar level bombardment on all the senses at once. A bewildering cavalcade of sights, smells, sounds and tastes assaulted the casual tourist. Even in the late evening, the soft light of torches and oil lamps illuminated a brilliant and colourful scene. Countless stalls of local rug weavers and silk merchants flanked this section of the road, intruding into dirt passageway with their wares and merchants. Pale pastel silks blended against the rich maroons, russets and ochres of carpets, offset against the white and cream robes of the Cairene hoi polloi, and the black veils and of their wives, travelling a step behind them.Some idiot had tried to get a taxi to drive down the covered thoroughfare, pressed by some ignorant tourist, no doubt, and the sedan was now beset by a horde. Hawkers aggressively pushed their wares through the open windows, trapping the incumbent amid a horde of howling, enraged Cairenes.The noise hit you like a wave. The omnipresent shouts of the vendors. The multilingual chatterings of tourists and natives alike. The chromatic meanderings a lone snake-charmer’s zumarra flute. The distant metallic clangs of the far-off copper, brass and gold smiths, working at night so that they may better judge the temperatures of their glowing forges. Beside him, a multi-story argument was developing between a fig salesman, enraged at the poor price offered for his wares, and a gaggle of shrieking wives, hidden in the shadows of their first floor harem. The man stood bawling in the street, howling with rage now that they had taken a pile of juicy figs and offered small payment in return. The women had heaved up the figs in basket dangled from their window, and thrown only a few coins down in return. Forbidden from entering the house or harem by Islamic law, he was reduced to a wildly gesticulatory, impotent fury.The smells washed over the traveller also. The smells of fruit, both rotting and fresh. The pungent whiff of dyed leather. The more familiar noxious hues of coffee and ma’assil. The musty aromas which emanated from the carpet sellers’ wares. Snatches of oriental spices and perfumes. And then the far less savoury ones that you could not escape in this teeming mass of humanity, those of stale sweat and faeces.And Taste. The air had a hint of cinnamon, which caught on the tongue. A ripe, rich fig was placed against his lips by some figure, blurred in the crowd. The dust, stirred up by the masses, settled in his mouth, drying his tongue. And finally, you could feel the market. Kenton’s bare forearms constantly brushed against the environment around him as he made his weaving way through the crowds. The coarse dusty robe of a hawker. The rough fabric of woven rug, its mis-stitch testament to the fact that only Allah was perfect. The cool swathes of silk, indolently fluttering in the night air. The soft tassels of a rolled carpet.Kenton took a long draw off his Camel as he sidestepped a steaming pile of mule dung. “Do you think it was a good idea not telling them anything about Apep?” Kenton’s tone indicated that he wasn’t so sure. He remembered sharply Outhwaite’s kick under the table as he was about to divulge a couple of facts about his arrival in Cairo. The Yorkshireman obviously thought that it was best to keep certain things quiet.Outhwaite shook his head. “Morris is as sound as a copper comes, but he’s still on the Force. No telling what he might do if we start blabbing about that albino and his arrangement with the Frog’s people.”He stopped for a moment, and placed a restraining hand on Kenton’s shoulder. Kenton met his gaze, and was surprised by the look of sincerity he found on Outhwaite’s normally sardonic features. Outhwaite addressed him quietly, “If you’re, we’re, going to come out of this crap-heap alive, we’d better play both sides very carefully. And that means not telling Morris and Taylor that you’re mates with the bleeding vice lord of Cairo, and met me through him.” His face softened into grin. “They tend to get all bloody righteous. How are they going to react to ‘Yeah, sure, my mate Apep knows about it’ Hmmm? What’s he do? ‘Oh well he’s into opium and hashish smuggling, white slavery, casual torture, child prostitution and murder. I’ll take you to meet him’.” The Yorkshireman broke into a sarcastic laugh at his humour, and shoved one of the more over-enthusiastic hawkers out of his path. The last strains of the muezzin calls to prayer faded into the noises of the markets flanking the Sharia Muski, defeated at last by the mercantile hordes, who seemed very unconcerned about their Salvation this evening. “Any luck, and the buggers’ll be done by the time we get there.” Outhwaite said hopefully, looking at the teeming hordes they’d have to pass before they reached their destination. Seeing that Kenton still seemed worried, he tried to reassure him.“Better if they start snooping around the criminal underworld, not us. In fact, I know an old-school copper when I see one. I bet they’re raising all manner of bloody hell this moment.”The two large Arabs had gone down quickly. One whimpered in a corner, a swift quick in the groin had momentarily incapacitated him, before his attempt to reach for a knife had resulted a thrown Nubian blade through his hand, cutting bone and mutilating his carpial muscles. The other had taken a few seconds longer - long enough to get a sound hit in on Taylor’s chin, before his brass knuckles had left the Arab’s nose a mass of blood and torn cartilage. A few place kicks from the Nubians after they’d fallen ensured that the two guards would take no place in the present conversation, with the owner, Rashid, who was now held up against the wall by the two Nubians. A large damp stain appeared on his robes near his groin, and began to spread. A trickle of urine ran down his leg, and on to the stone brothel floor. Taylor, heart still beating fast, recoiled for a moment in disgust. “Christ, sir, he’s bloody pissed himself!”Morris ignored his the distraction and kept his eyes focused on the “Now Rashid, are you hampering the enquiries of His Majesty’s police?” he asked.“B-b-but, I am protected! I am protected!!!” Rashid shouted in vain towards his attackers.“I don’t think you understand, Rashid,” Morris spoke calmly, as he filled his pipe. “We’re not from Cairo. And we couldn’t care less how much you’ve paid Apep. As far as we’re concerned, you’ve already told us all we want to know. You’re a paragon of virtue. Your kind help to His Majesty’s police will be printed in all the newspapers, you might even get an official commendation.”“B-but, I haven’t! No! No, you can’t do that! Apep will kill me!”“So perhaps you’d better tell us what you really know, then we can help protect you from Apep, Rashid.” Morris said smoothly, idly tamping down his tobacco. He reached for a match, and looked expectantly at the procurer.“No-one is safe from him - no-one!” Rashid’s cries grew pathetic. He squirmed in the Nubians’ grip. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and ran in rivulets down the creases his protestations were forming on his face.Morris slowly shook his head. “I don’t see that you have a choice, Rashid. Is Apep going to trust you after you spend twenty minutes with us? He knows that you’re weak. And greedy. So - what do you know of this American, Kenton, and this other group. Have they been asking after him?”“Course he knows, sir these filthy bleeding orientals stick together!” Taylor hated this pathetic specimen, and let it show.“English bastarrgghh!” A blow to the stomach from one of the Nubians cut short Rashid’s curse.“I-I don’t know!” he pleaded as he regained his breath.. “Only Apep dealt with the group - I know nothing! They are as swift as the night wind! And as invisible! The American – he, he came to see Apep when he arrived!”“And since then, Rashid? who has been looking into the affairs of the American?” Morris glanced at one of the Nubians and nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Nubian tightened his grip on the Arab and forced him higher up the wall, almost tearing Rahid’s shoulder out of his joint as he did so.“Qebhsenuf!” Rashid screamed, in agony. “He went to see Apep two nights ago! He said that if Kenton arrived, Apep should direct the American to him! He said he and some friends needed to speak with him, that Apep owed Qebhsenuf that much!”Morris grew impatient. Of course, he thought, we were the ones who asked Qebhsenuf to make inquiries! “Get to the point”Then he stopped. His mind focused on one point. One simple point that they’d both missed. A conundrum, hidden amongst Kenton’s strange tale, and Outhwaite’s timely help. In the qahwa earlier they hadn’t had time to pry into Kenton’s affairs once he’d reached Cairo, they didn’t seem important. There was still much to puzzle over from their time in England. Outhwaite had simply told them that he’d make inquiries using his contacts, and Kenton had magically appeared. It had not seemed important exactly how Outhwaite knew how to find Kenton at the time.Now a piece suddenly slotted into the puzzle.Two nights ago.Taylor looked mutely at Morris. The blood, aroused by the skirmish, was slowly draining from his cheeks. His mouth opened slightly, but no words emerged. They didn’t need to. Morris read the confused question in his companion’s eyes.But we only met Outhwaite this morning!The Al-Azhar University loomed before them. Their timing had not been quite perfect. The buggers had finished, but were now streaming through the Gate of the Barbers to join them. Kenton and Outhwaite were almost bowled over in a wave of robed, bearded, turbaned and tarbouched humanity. At least, following the ritual washing, the wave was a moderately clean one, and there was none of the Sharia al-Muski. Outhwaite smiled grimly at the situation, and forged his way through the crowd. He beckoned Kenton to follow him.After several minutes of wrestling through the crowds, they had reached the building. A guard in the fore court looked apprehensive that two infidels were approaching, and was about to summon a guide, but a couple of quick, quiet words from the Yorkshireman stopped him. The guard nodded, and let them both pass.The air inside was cool as they crossed the large, open space of the mosque’s Sahn el-Gami. Kenton gazed in wonder at the tall marble columns, lovingly inscribed with the verses of the Koran by craftsmen hundreds of years ago. Reaching the edge of the inner court, they moved onwards, through a forest of marble pillars, and into a dimly lit corridor. The air here had a distinct chill to it.Finally after twenty yards, Outhwaite stopped. He pushed aside a black cloth curtain, and entered and disappeared. Warily, Kenton followed him.It was a small room that he entered, with only a low study desk. Racks of musty books and scrolls adorned the shelves on the walls. The room was illuminated by a simple oil lamp, which hung from the centre of the ceiling. The glass was tinted, framing the room in shades purple and violet.Across from the study desk, on a pile of cushions, sat a short, stocky man. He was heavily tanned, and his features seemed more like those of a native of northern Persia than an Egyptian. It was his eyes that were most distinctive. They were bright, cheerful and alive. They seemed to possess the cunning of fox along with the wisdom of an academic. Slowly, a grin spread across his broad, bearded face. “Greetings, Mr. Kenton. Please, you look thirsty; help yourself to a drink.” He motioned towards a small cabinet on a far wall.”Gratefully, Kenton walked over. The glasses were as clear as crystal and sparkling clean. He looked that selection, and poured himself a scotch. No ice - not in Egypt, anyway. Quite a drinks cabinet this Mussulman had here: iced water, chilled lemonade and whisky? In an Islamic university?Click.The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. Kenton froze. Slowly, arms fixed to his sides, he turned around. The jovial holy man was facing him, pistol in hand. Kenton’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the gun.“Tokarev. TT33,” he stated, half under his breath. “Standard issue for the Russian Army, not Mohammedan holy men.”The man facing him simply smiled, his eyes never leaving Kenton’s. Kenton frowned. “OGPU, foreign section?” If the man was working with D’Huberres, this didn’t make any sense. There were a ton of weapons you could gain more easily on the black market than newly issued Russian pistols.“Your are perceptive, my friend.” The man used his gun to wave Kenton to a spare cushion.As he sat, Kenton turned on Outhwaite, hatred in his eyes. Outhwaite shrugged nonchalantly. “Sorry mate,” he said, as he moved to pour himself a scotch. “It’s nothing personal.”Kenton brusquely interrupted him: “I thought Morris said you owed him a favour?”“Yes, but I owe someone else a bigger favour.”Kenton glanced at the man with the gun.“No, James,” Outhwaite said quietly, “Not Vassily. Myself.”Vassily smiled. “Comrade Piotr has long been a friend of mine, Mr. Kenton.”James Kenton gritted his teeth. “Get it over with.”“Oh no, Mr. Kenton,” Vassily cheerfully countered, “We do not wish to kill you! Quite the contrary. We have, as your Americans capitalists might say, a business proposition for you!”“Don’t worry James,” Peter Outhwaite said past a wolfish grin, “You’re not the only confused foreigner wandering around Cairo, I think D’Huberres and his friends may be in for quite a surprise as well.” To the American’s surprise, Outhwaite was staring past Kenton, at the entrance to the room.Kenton turned towards curtain. It had been drawn back. Framed in the light of the corridor was the tall figure of a woman. The American did not think that he had ever seen a woman so beautiful. Or so obviously deadly. She was dressed in a simple khaki shirt and trousers. The shirt was tied about her waste, emphasising her considerable figure and exposing her smooth midriff. Her skin was tanned and unblemished, not yet harmed by the rigours of the dry climate and desert winds. Short blonde hair, bleached by the sun, was held back from her face in a loose pony-tail, except for a single strand which dangled playfully in front of her brown, almond shaped eyes. Although she stood near motionless in the doorway, every slight movement bewitched and aroused James Kenton. For a moment he forgot about his plight. And then her voice reminded him.“Hello James,” she whispered, seductively. “My name is Katrina.” Back to Table of ContentsChapter 12Death and RemembranceBy Caroline CormackKatrina turned to Vassily. “Nice work Vassily. I’ll take it from here.” She held her hand out for the gun. The Russian, with the look of a man long used to taking orders from beautiful women, passed the gun over.Katrina took the gun, checked it was loaded and shot Vassily, one shot cleanly through the forehead. Kenton was impressed; she hadn’t even appeared to be looking at Vassily at the time, much less taking aim.“Loose ends. They can be so tiresome.” She paused and turned to the horrified Outhwaite. "Don’t you think, my dear, sweet Peter?" Kenton watched her walk, no, he thought, this woman stalked, she stalked across the room to Outhwaite.Outhwaite had remained alive and at the top of the mercenary game for as long as he had because he had never stopped to think, never looked before he leapt, never considered his options. A man alone for most of his life, he had been free to act on instinct and worry about the consequences later, if he were still alive after the guns stopped firing. But now he had another to think of and in the bare second he took think of the best way to stay alive through this very dangerous turn of events, Katrina had her gun up and ready.He had just enough time to say “Andy?”, hoping that Kenton would understand, before he, too, was dead.Katrina who looked down at his body, sprawled now where he had sat, the back of his head splattered across the cushions behind him. She shook her head slowly, her lips curling up in a pitying sneer. “Peter, Peter, Peter.” she said sardonically, "You were one of the best and now look. You betrayed your friends for your beliefs. Such a principled man." She turned to Kenton and laughed, "Always the easiest to con. They want to believe. Such a pity Vassily was lying... and working for us. Oh well." Katrina said brightly, “Maybe his god will forgive him.”“Who are you?” Kenton asked, trying to put on a show of bravado, “Who’s ’us’? Who do you work for?” Kenton swallowed hard, doing his best to keep his attention focused on the room and the gun pointing at him rather than the powerful sexual woman behind it. The woman was a bewitching combination of sex and murder with a body that looked like it could destroy a man.Katrina reached up and ran her fingers through his hair and smiled seductively, pressing her body against his, her breasts pushing against his chest, the gun against his stomach. “All good questions my dear James.” She whispered, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke. “You’ll get your answers soon enough but right now I have to be elsewhere.” She stroked his neck and then applied swift pressure to the cluster of nerves just behind his ear, rendering him unconscious. Katrina let him drop to the floor and, stepping carefully over the dead bodies, walked over to the windows, leant out and whistled. The two burly Egyptian men who were waiting outside looked up. She beckoned them to come up.Inspector Morris and Sergeant Taylor wandered through the cool Cairo evening, heading slowly back to their hotel. Both were silent. They had parted company from their Nubian assistants, leaving them to persuade Rashid not to discuss their conversation. Morris was rapidly losing patience with this case, this city and with it any of his finer feelings towards his fellow man.Taylor, who’d learned to read his superior’s moods, kept quiet as they walked along.“God I hate this case.” Morris swore. “You know what Taylor, I’m even beginning to miss my boring, insulting, fucking put me out to pasture desk job back in London compared to this insanity. What the hell is going on? Huh? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?” he said bitterly. An orderly man by nature with an incisive, logical mind, the twists and turns of this case were infuriating him to the edge of his temper. Trying to solve this case was like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. Worse, he thought, it was like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing when the picture kept changing! Morris vented some of his frustration by kicking a stone at the wall. It didn’t help much. Taylor said nothing. Morris lapsed back into morose silence and the two of them continued on their way, each thinking much the same thoughts. Why had Outhwaite gone to see Apep two days before they had spoken to him? Who was he working for? Where was James Kenton? Who was he working for? And who was the bloody Frenchman who kept popping up, shooting people and then disappearing again? Who had the pendent? What was the pendent? And what were two Metropolitan coppers doing on the case in the first place? That last question was becoming less important to them as the case went on. Each had seen so much murder since starting on the case that even if the Chief Constable himself took them off it they weren’t sure if they could walk away any more.“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”Morris looked up, startled, to see a hard eyed, yet beautiful woman frowning at him briefly before walking away. He stood and watched her go. A statuesque, very curvaceous body, the visual, physical impact of which was diminished not at all by her khaki outfit. Morris found it hard to catch his breath. He wouldn’t forget that woman for a long while he thought.Taylor coughed and startled Morris out of his reverie. “Right Sergeant.” he said, “Shall we go?”“Yes sir.” Taylor said managing to keep a straight face at Morris’s discomfiture.Katrina was headed towards the opulent Hotel Olde Money where, waiting for her inside, was her boss. The Farouk Suite was by far the largest that this, the best hotel in Cairo, had to offer. It offered the guest the use of two sumptuous bedrooms and ornate marble bath room, a dressing room off each of the bedroom, a finely appointed living room and quarters for a small staff. The current occupant was sitting behind a desk in the living area tapping a pen against her fingernails. She got up and began to pace, waiting impatiently for the news of the evening’s activity.A tall elegant woman in her early fifties, she clearly had a lot of money and she wore it well. Too much style to be immediately dismissed as new money but with out the penny-pinching disregard for the fine things money could buy that marks out old money. She was, in fact, that most hated of combinations (but one that was becoming more common, to the horror of the old guard): new money married to old money. Her father, an eccentric inventor had caused scandal and a family rift that remained unhealed (about either she cared not one bit) by favouring her, the first born, in his will over her younger brother. In her early thirties she had been at the middle of more scandal when she married one of the most eligible bachelors in London society of the day: the young Duke of Norfolk.Still more scandal had followed when the Duke had died shortly after she had provided him with an heir. But she had done all the right things, mourned for the correct amount of time and quietly began to attend functions again. Always dressed and behaving soberly (avoiding the dreadful excesses of the bright young things both in dress and action) she took her place as a single woman who could be relied upon to make up the numbers without stealing the limelight from her hostess. In time London society’s gossips had turned their attention to another scandal and she became, if not accepted, at least no longer the focus of disapproval. She herself didn’t really give a hoot what people thought but she had her son to think of and it was important to business that she take her proper place in society. And so she had become the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and accepted all that that entailed. On the surface at least. The Duchess took great care to always present the proper front. Always polite and well mannered, always well dressed with perfectly coifed hair, yet the fa?ade of a well-bred gentlewoman didn’t quite hide the steel beneath. All the staff of the Hotel Olde Money agreed there was something very cold about the Dowager Duchess. None could put their finger on precisely what it was but all knew that one look from those icy grey eyes would discourage the most garrulous of waiters or fellow guests.The Duchess continued to pace, Katrina was late and she was worried. Ordinarily it wouldn’t concern her, Katrina could most surely look after herself, but her adversaries were bringing out the big guns now and it was barely a fortnight since one of her most capable operatives had been killed. She had been unable to attend the funeral because the work continued. However much she had loved the dead girl, she had others working for her who were also risking their lives every day. The Duchess leant against the windowsill, looked out at the street below and sighed, her shoulders slumping. Despite what evil gossips had said about her at the time, she had truly mourned the passing of her husband and missed him still. Oh she could handle the business, even the murkier aspects, but the support of a loved one would be treasured at a time like this. And even the good times weren’t as much fun without the Duke to enjoy them with, to plot and plan with. She smiled sadly, those two policemen! How James would have enjoyed their trials and tribulations at the hands of the men from the Ministry. What none of the gossipmongers had realised when she and James had announced their engagement was that the Duke wasn’t quite the man they all thought he was. If they had known, she thought, the two of them would have been run out of London most probably. Or would they? It was amazing, even now, how much a title could protect you from. If those busybodies had only known that he and her father had met because her father had discovered a new way to refine cocaine! James, who had been the main London source for many years had gone into business with her father and the new process had meant they could undercut anyone else’s prices and had swiftly become the only supplier to the whole of the South of England. Europe had beckoned when her father had been killed in South America. She had hidden away for a year mourning the loss of her beloved father and then she and the Duke had come back stronger than ever. Married now, the pair of them had ruled the roost in London and Northern Europe. Only one thing had marred their happiness, they had never found who had killed her father. Well one day she would. One day. And that would be a job she would take care of personally. The Duchess went back to her desk, enough wool-gathering, she needed to focus on the business in hand. She tapped a long red fingernail against the desk with annoyance. She still didn’t have the damn pendent and she was still in Cairo. She had only been in Egypt for a few days but she had decided she hated it. It was winter so at least it wasn’t excruciatingly hot but it smelled, even compared to London, there were too many insects and, since this had been a British protectorate, you’d think someone would be able to make a good cup of tea. Even the tea they served at the Embassy was not really tea. The Egyptians just didn’t understand the point of the English cuppa she supposed. It was like trying to explain cricket: either people understood or they didn’t.With luck Katrina would have good news for her tonight. She looked out over the street below and sighed. She missed London. “Henry?” she called. Her butler stepped into the living room. “Be a dear and rustle up some dinner for Katrina when she arrives would you? And have another go at producing a proper cup of tea.” She smiled with a warmth that would have surprised the staff and other guests of the hotel. “I’ll do my best ma’am.” Henry replied lugubriously, “But I don’t hold out much hope. It’s the water I think ma’am.”“Never mind Henry, I know you’re doing your best with what you’ve got here. We’ll be leaving soon with luck.”“Really ma’am?” Henry said, thinking of the Phantom II (his and his mistress’ pride and joy) back at home in England, left in the perilous care of the under gardener, a somewhat uncouth Londoner who swore he was a ‘whizz’ with cars. A note of hope lightened his usual mournful tone. “You’re not just teasing me?”“Would I Henry? No, I hope my business will be concluded in the next couple of days and then we can leave this country, this whole continent frankly and, if we’re truly lucky, never have to return.”“Yes ma’am.”“Besides, we need to be back in London soon, there’s Lord Salisbury’s party on… the fifth isn’t it Henry?”“That’s right ma’am. And you have an appointment with Sebastian on the fourth.”“Oh good. I will need all his skill to rescue my poor hair after all the heat and dust of this place.”“Yes ma’am.” Henry said without inflection.She laughed. “Oh Henry. I’m sorry. You are a great man to have stayed with me after James died. I don’t know how I could have managed without you.”“Thank you ma’am.” Henry said, uncomfortable at the praise, the tips of his ears going pink. “You are a gentleman’s gentleman, Henry, what are you doing listening to a fifty year old lady who worries about the state of her hair?”“Ma’am...?”“Never mind, Henry.” she smiled. Baiting Henry always lightened her mood. He had been her husband’s gentleman’s gentleman for twenty years before the Duke passed on and thankfully had agreed to stay on to perform much the same function for her. Except now he had to deal with hairdressers and manicurists, which he had never done for James. She wasn’t sure how she would cope without him. Aside from her adversaries, he was the only man she didn’t have to pretend for: pretend to be less than she was; pretend she needed their advice; pretend she needed them. James had been a rare man indeed, willing to see her as an equal. Henry was handy to have around for the business as well. There were many people she had to deal with who preferred to talk to a man and Henry was a strong and resourceful bodyguard as well. “Miss Cavanaugh is here ma’am.”“Excellent. Show her in would you?”“Yes ma’am.”Katrina walked in and slumped down into the sofa.“Your coffee Miss Cavanaugh. I added a little to it, you look like you need it.” Henry smiled. “Henry you are an angel.” Katrina took the small cup and took a sip of the potent brew. She sighed. “I don’t know how you can drink that foul liquid!” the Duchess exclaimed. “Even with the shot of whiskey. And I shan’t ask how you acquired that.” she said with a grin to Henry. “Best not ma’am.” Henry left the women to their business. “So Katrina.” The Duchess leaned forward and started tapping a pencil against her fingernails. “How did it go?”“Outhwaite and Vassily are dead. Kenton’s hidden.”“Does he have the pendent?”“As far as I’m aware yes. I didn’t have time to ask him before coming round here so I just knocked him out and stashed him. I figured I could spend some time with him after I’m done here.”“I want that pendant Katrina. Now more than ever. Those bastards at the Ministry killed Charlotte for no other reason than she happened to be in the boat with Kenton.”“Well, to be fair, she was doing a little more than just happening to be in the boat.” Katrina smiled, “She was better than me at infiltration.”“The Ministry didn’t know she was working for me! They blew that boat out of the water to destroy the pendant and Kenton and didn’t care that there was a British citizen on the boat as well. That bloody Frenchman beat me to Wakely but there will have been someone behind Wakely and one day I’ll kill him.”She paused, thinking of Charlotte, “But first the pendent. Losing Charlotte means I’m working blind now, I’m trying to get someone else in place with the Ministry but we’ll have to accept that we’re never going to get another source inside the Chinaman’s organisation and that could cripple us so we have to move fast.“I think Kenton’s ready to switch sides, from whatever side he was on in the first place and if you could find that out if would be useful.”“I thought he was working for the Ministry.”“A man like Kenton wouldn’t risk his life for just the one employer and I would be very surprised to find that the Ministry was actually involved. Officially I mean. Say what you like about them, and I’ve said plenty, I really don’t think the Ministry is in the game of blowing away British citizens. Not that way any way. A knife in a dark alley perhaps. Be that as it may, the Ministry, or Ministry officials working for their own gain, were trying to kill him with the bomb that killed Charlotte so he may be amenable to helping us. Go to work on him Katrina. See what you can get out of him.”“Will do.”“Is there anything else? You don’t seem has happy as you usually do after… successfully completing an assignment.”“We’ve got a couple of problems. D’Huberres and the English policemen.”“What’s happened? Tell me about D’Huberres first.”“He suspects something. He tried to follow me tonight.”“Did he succeed?”Katrina snorted with derision. “Of course not! He’s like all men, so bewitched by my ‘feminine charms’” she grinned, “That as soon as I hide them, they just don’t see me. Islamic dress codes just make it easier for me. But still, I don’t like the fact that he tried. I don’t know, it may just be his natural suspicion or he may actually suspect something.”“Damn and blast! I knew even you wouldn’t be able to string him along for ever, but I was hoping to be out of Cairo before we had to deal with him.”The Duchess thought for a while, “I think we’ve still got some time. It’ll take a few days, I would have thought, before he goes from suspecting you might be up to something you’re not telling him about to realising that you’ve been lying about everything. Keep him sweet for as long as you can,” the Duchess gave Katrina a long, appraising look and smiled, “You know how. But if he so much as looks like he’s about to turn, finish him. He’s useful to us as a dupe, but not enough to risk him taking information to Chinaman, or, even worse, the Ministry. Still we should be safe on that score. Now he’s killed Wakely and Wilson, I doubt the Ministry would believe D’Huberres if he told them Tuesday followed Monday!”“Okay.”“What about the policemen?”“I bumped into them on my way here. The older one got a good look at my face.”“For God’s sake Katrina! That was bloody careless!" The Duchess took a deep breath, trying to regain her hold on her temper, "How bad?”“Impossible to say.” She paused as Henry came in and draped a large cloth over her knees and handed her a knife and fork. He headed back to the servants quarters and came back out again with a plate stacked high with steaming hot English food. Katrina gasped at the sight of it and started eating like she’d been starved for a week. “Henry!” the Duchess exclaimed, “You have surpassed yourself this time. Bacon and sausages in Cairo, how did you manage that magic trick.”“I made some friends among the Embassy staff as soon as we arrived ma’am. A good man needs contacts. The Duke taught me that. Can I get you anything?”“No. Thank you Henry, we’re fine.”“Very good ma’am.”It didn’t take long for Katrina to wolf down the amazing dinner. Washing it down with the last of her coffee, she spoke again. “I’m sorry Peg.” Few could get away with calling the Duchess ‘Peg’, even ‘Margaret’ was something reserved for very close acquaintances, of whom there were few. “I wasn’t paying attention and neither were they and we just collided with each other. I got away from them as soon as possible but he definitely got a look at my face.”“And that may be all he needs.” She thought for a while, “Relax Katrina. These things happen. Sometimes fate just takes a hand. There’s nothing we can do about it now. If he recognised you then he recognised you. I don’t think it’s going to provide them with that much information. They’re so confused right now you could draw them a map and they wouldn’t be able to follow it. This may actually work in our favour. Add another level of obfuscation. We’ll have to keep you well away from them in future though.”The Duchess was more worried than she let on. Her chosen profession in England had pitted her against the Metropolitan force many times. For the most part she thought of them as bumbling idiots to be danced around and laughed at. But there were some you didn’t mess with. Some you stepped carefully round. And some from whom you backed off completely and stopped work for a few months until their attention had been drawn elsewhere. Sergeant Taylor was a man you stepped carefully around but Inspector Morris, he was the sort you backed away from. Luckily, as far as she could tell, neither of them had the slightest inkling that she was involved. Even so, if the stakes weren’t so high...“I’ll pay more attention in future.” Katrina said, still sounding remorseful.“Be sure you do.”Katrina left and the Duchess leant back in her chair and started to plan her next moves, continuing to tap her pencil against her fingernails, an absent minded habit that she had first started because it had annoyed the hell out of the nuns at her boarding school. She sat up suddenly; sure she had seen movement out of the corner of her eye. There! She reached down and grabbed... what the heck was it? Some sort of bug that had come out of her desk? “Henry?” she called.“Yes ma’am.”“Come and look at this. It just crawled out of the desk.”“The desk ma’am?”“I swear to you Henry, I saw it come out of the desk. Find something to put it in would you?”Henry went to the kitchen to get a box to put it in and quickly returned. He took the bug off the Duchess and after giving it a quick once over dropped it in the box and sealed the lid. “It didn’t look natural to me ma’am.”“Really? I didn’t look that closely.” she shuddered. “In what way did it not look natural?”“Well, just that I’ve never seen anything like it before. And you say it crawled out of the desk?”The Duchess nodded. “Well, where from?” Henry asked, “There’s no hole, like you get with wood worm.”The two of them sat quietly, trying to figure this out. The Duchess started tapping her pencil against her fingernails again, lost in thought when Henry waved to attract her attention and gestured towards the desk. Another bug was crawling out. The two of them sat and watched the bug apparently materialise out of the desk and start crawling down the leg. Henry grabbed it and dropped it in the box with the first one.“Burn every scrap of furniture in this place, then check us out. Get me rooms elsewhere. The Embassy if you have to. I’m not staying here. And see if you can find out what these bugs are.”“Yes ma’am.”Taylor walked down to the hotel restaurant where he saw Inspector Morris had already finished his breakfast and was doing the Times crossword. “Morning sir. Anything interesting in the paper?”“What? Oh this, this is about a month old Taylor, I found it in the Library. I thought the crossword might help restore a sense of normality to the world.”“Is it working sir?”“No Taylor. Not really.”Taylor ordered breakfast and another coffee for the Inspector and sat silently waiting for his food to arrive. He didn’t care for Cairo any more than the Inspector did, and with good reason, the Sergeant thought to himself, he’d been here before. But the Inspector’s continuous bad mood was beginning to wear him down. He, too, longed for the boring routine in London, even wished for The Whisperer to return. Anything would be better than the snarling...“Jesus!” Morris spat his coffee over the crossword. “It’s her!”“Coffee too hot sir?” Taylor asked, mopping down his shirt front. “It’s her! That woman.”“Which woman sir?”“That woman who bumped into me last night.”“Oh, that woman.”“You remember me saying, back in the Eastern Breeze, that there was something funny about one of the guests in the Bengal Lancer that night we went with Wakely.”A lot had happened since but Taylor vaguely remembered. “The young couple by the window sir?”“That was they. I know what was so odd about them now. I recognised them. I didn’t realise I’d seen them before but I had, they were in the railway carriage on the way up.”“What?”“Get out your notebook Taylor and remind me of our fellow travellers, I know they were in there somewhere.”Taylor flipped back through his notebook until he found the right page.“Right sir, here we go, there were four nuns, a schoolmistress, a young widow...”“The widow.” Morris interrupted. “Can you remember what she looked like?”“I’ve written down here she was a young widow of indeterminable means of support. And she... well...” Taylor paused, embarrassed. “What is it Taylor?”“Well, whenever you left the carriage, she… well, I got the impression she was interested in me, if you know what I mean.”“Really Taylor? And do you think you’d know her again if you saw her?”“Well,” Taylor said doubtfully, “Yes, I think so.” he said more positively. “It was odd, she looked like nothing much at all when you were in the carriage but when she turned on me she really took my breath away. Yes I reckon I’d know her again.”“It would surprise you to know then that you’ve seen her twice since. At least.”“No! Really sir? You think she’s...”“Yes, I do. In the Bengal Lancer, she was the young woman of the couple by the window that we both thought were out of place and last night, she was the woman who bumped into me. I got a good look at her eyes and that’s what got me to thinking. I’m sure the widow on the train, the young woman in the Bengal Lancer and the woman we bumped into last night were all the same woman.”“But that means sir...”“Yes Taylor.” Morris said through gritted teeth, “It means I have even less of an idea of what’s going on here than I did when I woke up.”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 13Delving DeepBy KehaarWallasey, crowned by New Brighton is the very northern tip of the rectangular Wirral peninsular whose other corners could be chosen as the townships of Ellesmere Port in the east, West Kirby in the west and the village of Parkgate in the south.It was a plainclothes Sergeant Goodwood who dismounted a friendly Hovis delivery driver’s truck on the outskirts of Parkgate carrying a stuffed and battered attaché case. A battered old homburg was rammed down on his blond haired head and the Sunday best suit had seen better days. Only his uniform boots, well polished, would have distinguished him from a common-or-garden man looking for work. At first he had perversely welcomed the ‘Kenton murder.’ It had been a change from the relentless tedium of directing traffic and removing broken glass from bare foots of beach playing kids. Something other than escorting whacker drunks to the ferry and banging up Wallasey’s own in Hope Street to sleep it off. Some excitement, some adventure at last as the thrill of gripping burglars and raiding illegal drinking dens had lost it’s charm.He wandered through the village streets that Lady Hamilton had tottered as a youngster before finding fame as Lord Nelson’s mistress. Eventually finding himself at a broad squat alehouse called ‘The Boathouse.’ Slipping in he ordered a pint and took a seat from the plenty available looking over the marsh and Dee at surly Welsh mountains. Retrieving a Times from the attaché case and pretended to read while hearing the barman decrying ‘working class scum’ to his wife in the kitchen.No, the case had not been exciting. The London coppers had wandered around like headless chickens for a while and consumed a lot of beer. It had been the Wallasey police who’d been kept in the dark as apparently key witnesses disappeared and two more murders had occurred. Goodwood couldn’t give a damn about the death of that stuffed India shirt Sir Archibald but Charlotte had been a good kid. Well - actually she’d been a bloody idiot but she didn’t deserve to get murdered by a yank in the middle of the North Sea. Goodwood ruffled the paper to himself in anger.Well he wasn’t going to get a reckoning with the Yank anytime soon. But he could try and get the original murder of the other American cleared up. The Cockneys had disappeared off into the blue with their ministry minders while a Liverpool detective Superintendent had been assigned to the case. He was a Superintendent Kelly who matched the descriptions of a man who’d lead of bunch of heavies raiding a terraced house rented under the name ‘Jack Smith’ in Poluton. At least that’s what Goodwood’s contacts had said. He could see the fat officious little moustachioed prig now commandeering offices and officers while putting on airs and graces. He had no visible Ministry contact but since that Wilson had disappeared perhaps he’d stayed behind operating through Kelly. No matter it was time for some of the honour of the Wallasey police to be restored – not for the press D-notices had seen that wasn’t a problem, but for self-respect and justice. It had been a revelation that the Chief Constable had felt the same.A undistinguished looking old man in an expensive if worn suit entered the pub and with a nod to Goodwood ordered a half of brown ale from the barman. He curtly and efficiently came along side the Sergeant.“Mr Goodwood?” the voice was Home Counties and educated. “Aye, feel free.” Goodwood moved his seat to allow the smaller man to get to a chair opposite. Once sat and having removed his raincoat and placed his pint and hat on the table the newcomer leant forward and shook the policeman’s hand. Goodwood noticed the mason’s grip and responded though he was himself a buffalo it wouldn’t do any harm.“Sir Bernard Spilsbury.”“Good of you to come,” said Goodwood leaning back.“Indeed” whispered Spilsbury still slouched forward resting on his elbows his hands steepled. “Your Chief Constable Ormerod’s request was most irregular Sergeant.” “But understandable considering the circumstances I’m sure you’ll agree.” Said Goodwood fishing out a Senior Service before offering one to Spilsbury.“No thank you I’m a pipe man – yes, well you have the reports?”“Yes” Goodwood lit the fag, “ in the case” which he passed over with out further ado. If anyone could see something missed it would be the pathologist that had solved Crippen, the Brides in the bath murders and the Brighton Trunk case.Goodwood sat for a good two hours reading his paper, sipping pints and walking along the marsh wall all the while smoking cigarettes. Every now and again the respected forensics man issued forth one-word pieces of punctuation as he scrawled notes. Eventually Sir Bernard beckoned him to join him.“Sergeant. What you have here is gross incompetence in your forensic investigators.”“That made sense they’d been provided by the Ministry.”“Here, the victim clearly died from the shots to the lungs, from the descriptions of the tissue damage” Sir Bernard was not about to get technical with the well-meaning provincial. “Extensive internal bleeding had taken place, which would have drowned the victim, before any shotguns blasts were delivered to the body.”“I see,” Goodwood lit a fag out of habit rather than desire.“I estimate at least half an hour before in fact. Is the sketch map of the murder scene accurate and to scale?”“Yes,” exhaled Goodwood.“Then I’d say that you’re looking at more than one exchange of shots. The revolver rounds were .455 Webley common as muck but your ballistics man failed to note the twist on the bullet.”“Twist?” Goodwood took another drag.“Twist - a bullet is spun by grooves in the barrel these leave a distinctive mark. Which if you have the firearm can identify the weapon but can in any case identify the model and mark. Like a tire tread can help identify a car. It is gross incompetence of your ballistics man not to note the grooves correspond to the unique Webley-Fosbery revolver.”“Unique?”“It’s an automatic revolver, clumsy, heavy and sensitive to dirt.”“Why would anyone use the bugger then?”“Because it has a tight gas seal. It can be silenced.”“But people clearly heard shots - ”“Very common for silencers to fail after the first couple of rounds – furthermore the two rounds in the victim are from different revolvers the one in the boat matches the one which penetrated the corpses right chest. The shooters of the fatal shots could have been shooting the boat. But that’s conjecture. The shotgun injuries are interesting.”It was now Goodwood who was leant forward, “How come?”“First delivered post mortem – why? Second both applied to the chest area – fore and back – why?”“You have a theory.”“I have a certainty but I’m unsure of why.’ Bernard reached for his pipe and started to fill it but didn’t interrupt his exposition. ‘Fragments of white fish like flesh was found in the area of the shotgun wounds. The report assigns this to the aftermath of the victim’s visits to the chipshop. Balderdash, the direction of blast means that this is not material from the stomach. Unless the murders are in the habit of decorating their corpses with fish flakes – the material was already in or on the victim’s chest at the time of the desecration. Don’t expect me to explain why.”The pathologist lit his pipe.“I also think your victim was carrying something – heavy rope burns in the right hand some form of drawstring kitbag or satchel. Quite a weight in it, judging by the depth of the scaring. To be honest there is little else I can do unless - ”“Unless you can get me to the body – it’s been several weeks in the ground but I may see something left out of the report. Incidentally I think the report was written so it could be claimed as incompetence if re-investigated later. They could have just lied – instead they just didn’t link data or draw the logical conclusions.”“Unusual, maybe the person writing the report wanted to get word out but could risk it directly?”“Perhaps. Can we get to the corpse?”“It’s buried but I’ve discussed the possibility with Mr Ormerod.”“What are we waiting for?”It was a wet night and under tarpaulin Goodwood and a couple of select constables dug steadily. The gothic church and separate ruined bell tower of St Hilary’s leering over them. Chief Constable John Ormerod was taking the vicar and his wife for dinner. Kelly was being beaten at darts in the Nags Head by some of ‘A’ relief’s heavier drinkers. Reliable men were guarding the phones at the station. High walls covered the scene from passers by and householders.They struck wood.Slipping in the mud they struggled with the corporation coffin, already suffering from the attention of worms. The flimsy lid was flipped off. Sir Bernard uncovered his lamp under he shelter of the tarpaulin and began to poke and prod indifferent to the wretched odour that was causing the constables such consternation. From within the coffin a small engineered insect left with a trail of its mother nature evolved cousins to report to it’s own mother.For about an hour Spilsbury took samples and checking tissue in a fascinated and detached manner. Unheard by the uncomfortable officers over the drumbeat of the rain on tarpaulin, a car growled up to the churchyard gates.“Fuck this, I’m going to get some fresh air,” informed Goodwood popping out in the rain as it eyes adjusted to the dark he could see four heavy set figures manoeuvring behind gravestones. There head and shoulders sticking out from the sunken path from the street. He saw one point something at him and dived for the floor. A bullet travelled quietly terminating in a smack as it connected with the stone of Goodwood’s cover producing a puff of dust.The other two constables came running only to be cruelly cut down by silent bullets when silhouetted by lamplight.Sir Bernard killed the lamp and dived into the vacated grave – grabbing an unclaimed spade for a last ditch defence. Goodwood made series of low dashes towards the church. His eyes adjusted now there were four of them, All armed. If he could draw them off Spilsbury could get away with his results. A salvo of shoots pinned him of the edge of the graveyard gravestone dust raining on him from suppressing fire.“I don’t fancy an ironical death” he whispered.The nearest was about three yards away from the laboured breathing. The others between six and twelve yards. The it hit Goodwood if he could hear him breathe he wasn’t shooting. Reloading? Worth the risk.He launched himself out from the gravestone and caught the nearest assassin as he was just slapping his reloaded cylinder back into the revolver. Shots from other whistled past him as a size twelve boot caught the gunman under the chin sending him flying upward and back. Grabbing him by the neck Goodwood smacked out his anger on the nearest gravestone with the man’s skull. Recoiling, his hands and clothed coated in grey ooze he dived back for the released gun as a round stabbed him in the shoulder.The third gunman was making for the grave tearing the tarpaulin out of the way he caught a spade blade in the groin and collapsed into a ball of pain. Sir Bernard kept him down with a savage two-handed chopping motion of the spade on his prostrate form – adrenaline empowering his slight frame.In pain, Goodwood fired three bullets blindly at the direction of the shot. A near accurate double tore up the earth around him as he crawled on his back behind the meagre cover of a flat grave.He heard the click of a hammer on a empty cylinder – propped up for a look around and saw the remaining gunman running at him with shotgun who then dropped to fire. A blast carried the revolver out of Goodwood’s hand, grazing the skin of his face and powdering the surface of the grave. The figure stood atop the grave now pumped another round and dropped the barrel towards the prostrate Goodwood.A shot rang out.Stunned the shotgun carrier turned slumped his knees and fell back clutching his throat as a startled Sir Bernard, whose profession was death, had killed his second man. The revolver was dropped as he ran forward to see if the policemen were all right.The survivors lay in beds in Mill Lane hospital. Sir Spilsbury under a mountain of blankets filled with a lake of sweet tea as the nurses waited for the shock to subside. Goodwood under bandages, dying for a fag.Outside the closed ward voices could be heard. Kelly decrying the Chief Constable, Mr Ormerod shouting him down – the Lord Mayor interjecting regarding the summer season - only to be shouted down by both policemen.This went on for some time. Sir Spilsbury recovered enough to make some phone calls. Phone calls to his fraternal brothers. Shortly afterwards a missive came from London returning jurisdiction in the case to the Wallasey Borough Police with Sir Bernard attached as an advisor. However any and all reports still had to be copied into the Ministry via Liverpool Special Branch in the personage of Kelly and nothing was to be released to the Press who happily accepted the firecracker and vandalism cover story for the events of that night.The next few days Goodwood assisted the pathologist with his examination of the corpses – including a proper examination of Kenton junior that confirmed Sir Bernard’s suspicions of the original autopsy.Furthermore the brain and spinal column of the original murder victim seemed to be afflicted with strange legions the doctors couldn’t identify.Of the gunmen two were identified as local men with a history of suspected white-collar crime but not what you’d call hardened villains. The third, the shotgunner was identified as a Dieter Hoffman, a Austrian adventurer believe killed fighting against the Italians in Rhodes ’23 who’d been involved in revolution crushing in Germany and his homeland, smuggling aiding the Yugoslav secret service and many things the ministry couldn’t divulge. The funny thing was his description wasn’t exact, schlager scars where slightly out of place and his ears too long.Even more mysterious was strange still living teardrop about six inches long and at it’s broadest four inches. It was best likened to a skinless eyeless fish due to the translucent flakiness of it’s flesh. Sir Bernard found inside the chest of Hoffman. The texture and composition of its flesh coincided with the material inside Kenton Junior that seemed untouched by normal decay. Hoffman had similar legions on his neck and spinal column but their cause was evident as thin tendrils of flesh connected to the fishy lump. It was extracted by Sir Bernard and kept under examination in the police station.And deep under the ground it’s mother screamed.The two men sat in the operating theatre that had been their home for the last few days. Goodwood still bandaged but healing and Sir Bernard back to his old self.The phone went and Good wood answered, coming back after a few minutes, “That was the station on the guns used” a shiver went up Sir Bernard’s spine.“As we expected Sir Bernard the same Webley-Fosbery revolvers as used in Kenton Junior’s killing.. Shotgun wounds matched hunting weapons in the men’s houses – must have been used later to cover up the fishy business,” Goodwood smiled at his pun. “Having checked with the families the men didn’thave an alibi for the night of our original murder.”“The original murder and still puzzling murder.”“Well we seem to have – if only by accident, got the murderers.” Goodwood opened a window and fished in his breast pocket for his fags.“But no motive?”“Well there’s also the fact that both Kenton Junior and Hoffman had funny parasites.”“Indeed, and both had slight imperfections compared with the original.”“Your saying we’ve got a Hoffman junior?” Having located his cigarettes Goodwood lit one.“Assuming the Viennese police records are correct and the Italians aren’t lying - yes.”“So whose producing look a likes of globe trotting rogues?”“And why? Let me show you something Goodwood.” Spilsbury removed a small matchbox from his coat pocket. The larger man wandered over to examine its contents and adjusted his position so he wasn’t blocking the light. Inside were a couple of frantic insects each with an enlarged thorax.“Ugly little buggers.”“More than that – unique.”“That word again.”“Much more unique than a small order of bizarre automatic revolvers. These are the survivors of a batch I have taken the liberty of showing to Professors of Entomology in Liverpool and wiring their conclusions to esteemed professors across their globe. These are an unknown species, - completely unknown here in England.”“Could a come of a boat Sir Bernard, we get ships filled with all sorts here you know.”“Indeed you’re right – but when examined their flesh – within the thorax and other parts corresponds with that of the curious guest in Hoffman and Kenton juniors’ chests. Unlike the flesh of any insect known to man.”“Bugger”“I’m going to issue a request to your Chief Constable that his men keep a lookout concentrations of these animals – they may lead us to the very source of this mystery.”Attentive insects scuttled off with the news.The news was received with interest. Within the ancient mind addled by elixirs of life needed to keep it’s mutated host alive the Mother began to squirm. It was Wilmarth, or Harpenden all over again. Things had begun to go wrong when the Kenton duplicate had begun to override it’s programming, like all duplicates had done eventually. The Brotherhood’s agents had performed their duty only to fail to find the Key. Not that she felt she could trust the Brotherhood anymore they had been out of her direct control since the mutiny and probably had their own agenda.Things could not be allowed to go wrong, not so close to the time. It as bad enough that the Key had into the hands of the criminal element who had found her ears and rooted them out, but now that these bumbling humans may be close to finding her lair - it could not be allowed. Should this phase be missed she would be imprisoned her amongst these hormonal carbonites waiting further centuries till the bliss of dying with her own kind. She could not bear that, and it was unlikely her host’s body would survive that long.Unfortunately for her pheromones are not the quickest of communication forms compared with telephone and police car and before long Sir Spilsbury had received communications regarding sightings of the insects. A Wallasey Police black SS Jaguars with chromium-plated radiators and headlamp surrounds parked adjacent to the sea wall. it joined a Ford V8 and the Chief Constable’s Vauxhall saloon containing the Chief, Goodwood and Sir Spilsbury. Together the vehicles formed a pride of gasoline fuelled big cats purring at the choppy sea. The Ministry had been left out of the loop. Mufflers and hats or helmets held tight against the wind Sir Spilsbury examined a map of the town on the bonnet of the Vauxhall as various officers pointed out were concentrations had been seen. Dale View before the pest controller had done his work, the marshy common between Bidston and Leasowe, other locations in New Brighton and around the church.“Does anything connect these locations Chief Constable?”“Well, it’s long shot but..” The Constable tweaked his shallow moustache. His native Mancunian accent had been all but obliterated from his time serving with Earl Haig’s BEF staff.“Out with it man!” The thickset officer locked his square jaw in anger and then answered.“These all correspond with old reputed tunnel entrances used by a local smuggling network in the sixteenth century - long bricked up and built on.” He stroked with medal ribbons on the left breast of his uniform jacket. “Are they mapped?” Sir Spilsbury couldn’t care less about the Chief’s Medialle d’Honneur, Military BEM or meritorious service medal.“Not to my knowledge some say the Customs mapped them years ago but the plans have long been lost.”“Any other entrances?”“Excuse me Sirs” coughed Goodwood, “but as a kid we used to play down towards the sand dunes – there’s some cave entrances there, we always thought they connected up but were to chicken to go deep.”“That’s right” seized the senior policeman, “we’ve had to effect rescues from there over the years.”“With your permission Chief Constable?” Ormerod nodded to Spilsbury’s request and retreated to the warmth of the car. “Lead on Goodwood.”The convoy of cars approached the humble caves in a series of grassy hillocks in common between New Brighton proper and the start of the dunes. Goodwood doffing his helmet to enter lead the party of the Chief Constable, Sir Spilsbury and six officers in the gnarled sandstone cavern. Each of the officers carried a length of rope picked up on route from a ship’s chandler and a lantern or electric torch. They all wore great coats and a three of the policemen including Goodwood carried cutlasses as well as truncheons. The centre of that was made of sinkhole that dropped to a smooth floor about eight-foot below. Slowly and with a number of officers helping the elderly pathologist down they assembled in the tall lean corridor. The Chief Constable gripped his service revolver for comfort and the three men carrying firearms likewise retrieved then from within their uniform jackets.They followed that corridor for a good while the silence only being broken by Goodwood saying “this is where we turned back as kids” after fifteen minutes. Eventually they reached split in the corridor a short walk up the left showed that it resulted in a bricked wall – from the men’s calculations a legendary entrance down the Mersey coast at Egremont near the town hall. Returning to the divide they walked down the descending corridor that sank quite deeply. They grasped their illumination tighter.“Interesting Mr Ormerod, these passages are straight and dry – definitely dug by an intelligence not natural phenomenon.” Sir Bernard’s nervous commentary was cut short as a cry came from Macintosh, the lead constable in the party, followed by a the smash of a torch and clatter of dropped equipment. As the rest of the party rushed forward to see – Goodwood, now in the lead had to brace himself against the walls screaming “Back off there’s a sheer drop!” repeatedly.The press of men threatened to plunge him on top of the fallen PC Macintosh. Soon the Chief Constable joined the fray holding back those behind him and man handling those in front less they cause Goodwood and themselves to plummet down on the hard rock were Macintosh nursed a twisted ankle. As things calmed above him the young constable cried “There’s a bloomin’ big cave here like! Covered in glowing muck.”With order restored the party descended by ropes to the cave. Leaving anchored ropes above with a brace of men and the injured so they might be escape in a hurry if needed up the slimy slope. “Great Scott! What’s this illuminating mould Sir Bernard?”“I’m afraid I’m a pathologist not a botanist Mr Ormerod, but it’s nothing I’ve heard of.”“This cave’s massive” added Goodwood lighting a fag before refixing his helmet. “It’s got to be at least as tall as the Cathedral so that’s what 360 feet?”“Something like that” added the sturdy and gargantuan figure of Constable Henry polishing his glasses.“Where’s that dripping coming from?” queried the robust PC Condor cocking his Webley.“Somewhere in the distance. Best not worry Constable.” Affirmed the Chief holstering his revolver for emphasis.“Probably carries a distance on that damned wind.” Said Goodwood tightening his muffler as the chill swirled around the myriad stalagmites and stalactites into his very bones.‘Exactly right Constable Goodwood. My word what a host of anthropoids!” Shining his torch Sir Bernard exposed one part of a host of insects covering much of the caves floor.“They mainly seem to be the little buggers we’re after.” Said Henry peering through freshly polished specs.“Shotgun job this.” And with that Condor holstered his revolver only to produce a sawn off pump action shotgun from inside his coat. Preening his rakish ginger moustache as he held it one handed, butt against his hip.“We will discuss that” pointing to the shotgun, “LATER Constable.” Said the Chief Constable, ‘there seem to be scorpion like things amongst them Sir Bernard.“As stated before I am not an entomologist. But yes there does and a trite large at six inches.” The scientist bit on a unlit pipe, deep in thought. “They’ll be more scared of us than we are them” said Constable Harding holding his lantern out a he walked at the crawling clicking rug of bugs. His hawked nosed face beaming in confidence. A few moments passed as he strode out into their midst and yes the mass did part like the Red Sea for Moses.“Let’s get to the bottom of this!” issued the Chief Constable striding forth. Goodwood, Henry, Sir Bernard followed. PC Condor brought up the rear, pointing his shotgun at particularly threatening mounds of insects as he followed. Macintosh and his two companions waved goodbye, praying for their return.They strode on dwarfed by flanking towers of rock.“Basalt? Common here Chief Mr Ormerod?”“I’m a policeman not a geologist, Sir Bernard but I’ve never seen it.”“Strange shape it has, jutting out like that.”“If you say so Sir Bernard.”The ground underfoot became first damp, and then carpeted in mosses, and an increasingly musty smell permeated the air. Between this dank and the wind the men chattered to ease their fear. Under the head of Sir Bernard they discussed local pubs, gossip and football in a false atmosphere of ‘hail fellow well met.’They reached a spring an upwelling from the rock, running off through a cutting cut by the undeground stream. “That air smell’s fresh” said Harding, “we could escape and come back with more men –maybe borrow some volunteers from the fort?”“Sound suggestion Harding press on.”“I’m sure these insects are following us, Chief Constable” came a voice behind a trained shotgun.“Heedless paranoia Condor. Forward”“Watch it! It’s slippy!” Shouted Harding and the body secured everything they could it free their hands. Even Condor shouldering his precious shotgun by it’s sling. They had to brace themselves and Goodwood fastened a safety rope between himself and the aged pathologist lest he lose his footing. The professor was as nimble as a mountain goat his scientific curiosity seemed to give him the agility of a younger man as they plunged deeper, bracing against slime covered walls less they slip.“A big Cave ahead, looks like more of that funny mould lighting it.” Passed on Harding and they came out in a large cavern faced with a peculiar site“That” said Henry over his glasses, “is a bleeding battleship.”“A bloody rusty one at that!” Said Condor raising his shotgun at the ground became sure.“An ironclad to be certain gentlemen. Look at the guns - variable calibre and the oval hull, pre-dreadnought, later nineteenth century.” Asserted the Chief Constable.“How the devil did it get here then sir?” queried Goodwood“No idea. Let’s explore and find out.”They found an anchor chain and drew themselves up it – the old man being hoisted by rope once the policemen had secured the deck. The decking was rotten but there were curiously few insects. Here and there was the odd discarded weapon – Martini Henry’s according to Condor – dating the ship’s disappearance after the 1860s.“What a find, heh Sir Bernard. Sir Bernard?” The elder man stayed silent, ignoring Goodwood, he had not looked much at the deck but had been transfixed his mounting the deck, looking at the above the ship he had only been able to stop and stare.“Sir Bernard?” Goodwood followed his eyes and he too was transfixed.Above them was the familiar the swirling and murky water that surrounded and caressed the town. The here they we looking from below rather than above. Moon fish and other hardy surface dwellers swam above them without a care.Goodwood silently tapped the other men with his bandaged hand and they joined him and Sir Bernard in silent wonder.The spell was broken by a scream. Macintosh’s scream carrying far and away from the sanctuary he has his escort have been left. A bevy of broken shots also sounded as they descended from the wreck. Harding, the Chief Constable and Condor hurried on as Henry and Goodwood struggled to let the pathologist down gently.Goodwood scrambled down the ship as Henry brushed down Sir Bernard. Further shots had been heard followed a rising clicking clacking sound. The younger men made their way to the crack by which they’d entered as Sir Spilsbury followed on. As Henry reached the mouth he was pushed aside by the Chief Constable striking clinging biting insects from his shoulders and neck with his smoking pistol barrel.A chitenous mass swarmed out of the crack Goodwood and Henry retreating dragging the screaming Chief away from the crawling expanding brood. Sir Bernard also trotted ahead of them pointing and screaming to another exit from the cave. A midst the expanding horde of manipled malevolence came a stumbling once human figure covered in a biting clawing carnivorous mass his last energy losing shotgun shells into the accelerating anthropoids to whom he was only fuel to their bush fire.“Condor!” shouted Goodwood as the man fell for the final time.“Quickly!” screeched Sir Bernard his old vocal cords stretched to their peak and with that the four survivors plunged into their only exit. They climbed the tunnel as animals not men – nails, elbows teeth all were used in the fearful scramble for life and air as the click clacking pursuit sounded beneath and behind them growing ever closer.They burst forth - a geyser of men into a smaller cavern. Gasping for air they paused instinctively aware that greater efforts would be needed before they were safe.If only there had been another exit.Again it was Sir Bernard who saw it first. Stretched out against the roof of the cave in a parody of woman. The others joined him in dreadful awe.If the cavern was given four corners then it was here that the thing started. Once human fingers and toes stretched from inches into foot, spindly to the point of whiskers at their start formed into recognisable if elongated hands and feet. Then multiple jointed and stretched legs and arms arched up the cavern anchored here and there to the roof by collections of mucus collecting at the joints. The body was a pathetic thing human sized but with additional extremities. The great sickly tube that projected from between the legs anchored to wall to below where it produced sticky mounds of eggs. Carried off by scorpion creatures. The breasts, floppy and formless drooping absentmindedly from the body clusters of tubes at the nipples attached to banks of equipment along the walls of the cavern. It was equipment that had once been men. Their bones cracked into geometrical shapes each attended to by it own collection of six-inch scorpion things there claws manipulating tiny nodules of flesh as if dials and knobs forming a mass of biological industry which ringed the cavern, stray organs having escaped their fleshy confines received particular attention. All was finished in the same blue-grey translucent skin under which muscles and organs moved with an unclear purpose. Only the thing attached to the ceiling had the flicked of intelligence in it’s ancient eyes.Here she had sat since she had first possessed Mother Redcap’s daughter all those centuries ago. The only good luck she’d had since the survey mission had crashed. From here when young and strong her duplicates had been able to span the world, her smaller brood had been efficient and swift and the search for the key had been co-ordinated. Now in her old age those powers had fitfully declined. The duplicate directing the Brotherhood had shaken off her control like a loose overcoat, the coterie within the Ministry had weaned away from her by darker powers, only the Chinaman remained half loyal and even his followers were distracted by their narcotic clashes and distorted discourses. At least she could occasionally prevail upon them – like getting the Brotherhood or secure the arms and men to dispatch the rogue Kenton duplicate. But like wilful children they have strayed from her grasp leaving her to pick up scraps of information. Human stubbornness and her own decline she had never been able to adjust to. Now there were trespassers – the brood would deal with them, but how she longed to die amongst her own kind - if she could only get the Orichalcum and signal home.As the insectoid horde came running up the corridor the Chief Constable took careful aim and fired and the musing of the Mother came to a stop.“Mister Ormerod!”“That’s the end of that abomination Sir Bernard.”The clock of the world stopped for a moment. A Swami in Calcutta felt a psychic impact and departed for the mountains. A stately occultist in Los Angeles abandoned his séance and retired to a mountain hunt in Alaska. Certain advisers to the Bishop of Rome made clear that the end times could be upon us. For Orichalcum was now just a matter for men and their pent up petty jealousies.In George Street Dim Sum house, the master of the property shook and stumbled before realising he was free – and had matters to attend to in Cairo.Without the controlling intelligence the body above the policemen and pathologist began to crumble to dust around them insects began to keel over and equipment to spark and burn. The force field holding the Irish Sea back collapsed and with a roar it returned to it’s proper depth. Without other exit the four surviving men crawled through the decomposing mass of dead insects down to the lip of the sea.The Ironclad somehow natural now underwater glistened below them Henry went first with the Ormerod while Goodwood guided Sir Bernard – their lungs fit to burst they broached the surface and breathed fresh sweet air. Salt water stinging Goodwood’s wounds he thanked the Lord for the life service training he’d received as a policeman in a coastal town. Eventually being picked up by an Isle of Mann ferry. Everything was accounted for an the Ministry given it’s report while the Constable busied himself with informing relatives of their sons and husbands demises.They were all signed to secrecy of course, bound by rituals of legalise and dire threat. This didn’t stop Sir Spilsbury telling the tale in the sanctity of his lodge to those whose ears were in the service of an older order. Nor did it stop Goodwood transcribing the affair and passing a copy to a friendly sailor, Egypt bound marked for the attention of ‘Sergeant Taylor, Metropolitan Police,’ he figured if they were likely to face anything like his party had they’d need all the warning they could get. Meanwhile cocaine addicted Professor of Entomology and senior mason received his second telegraph on a previously undiscovered species.Back to Table of ContentsChapter 14HuntersBy Matt FarrThe funeral pyre of the Hotel Suite’s furniture rose from the rear of the vast, well watered gardens as the sun set across the bustling city, the deep orange skies lighting the sand-stone buildings almost blood-red and throwing sharp shadows across the streets. The street traders, Dragomen and other hangers-on to the tourist trade were filtering away from the Hotel steps, another day done for them leading gullible westerners to markets and tombs, heading off to the coffee houses and brothels to spend the evening losing the money they had so patiently taken. Amongst them, Alphonse D’Huberres, dressed as a native beggar, slipped back to his safe house, nursing his anger.“So, d’you think the bugger’s skipped out on us sir?” Taylor was desperate for a good pint, too hot, and all the women plying their trade here reminded him uncomfortably of the one that had given him a dose here those many years ago. “No.” The sand was making Morris’ hoarse whisper worse – almost a poor imitation of itself. “I think he’s in trouble again.” “Why? That woman?”“Instinct. Even if Outhwaite was playing us for fools he’d have been back by now to keep us sweet. No. Something’s up.” The pair where walking through the Cairene evening towards the hotel that Thatcher and his Ministry helpers had put them up in – the officials preferring a more comfortable lodging at the British Embassy. Probably with decent cups of tea, too, thought Taylor. Bastards. “But the woman, you think she’s following us?”“That, or we’re following her. Another wild card.” “Aye sir, there’s a lot of them.” Taylor thought for a moment, trailing in Morris’ wake as the inspector moved through the early evening crowds. “But they probably say the same about us!”Morris smiled thinly. “One must hope so, Taylor”They had spent the day awaiting either Kenton or Outhwaite to come back to them in a small, tourist-ridden coffee shop near the Pyramids. Taylor had talked seemingly endlessly about the heat, the natives, the lack of tea or the poor quality of same, and generally blended in with the rest of the sun-soaked European tourist trade. Morris had sat quietly, contemplating the vast stone constructs rising above the small market in which the shop was located, and slowly becoming more agitated at the non-appearance of his contact. Finally he had given up, and with a curt command led the Sergeant back to their hotel. They arrived to a scene of chaos. Egyptian staff and European guests alike were in a panic, running around with jugs of boiling water, newspapers, or simply running around, stamping on a swarm of insects that where on the verge of overwhelming the foyer. They looked like no insects Morris had ever seen, large and fat, more so than the foul cockroaches they had in these parts. The creatures seemed to running around aimlessly, and slowly succumbing to the mass of humanity waging war upon them. The two London Policemen had seen enough strange happenings recently to be suspicious. Both set off for their rooms at a run. As they feared, their rooms were a mess. Whilst only a few insects remained here, soon to fall victim to Taylor’s vengeful feet, chairs where overturned, the bed messed up, and hangings disturbed. Morris looked around in dismay.“Hey Inspector, look at this.”Taylor had temporarily ceased his one-man war on the room’s six-legged invaders and was pointing to the small roll-top desk beneath the room’s window. Halfway along the front half an insect was hanging out, wiggling slowly, with no visible hole to hang out of. Carefully Morris grabbed one of the cracked glasses the Hotel left for it’s patrons to drink it’s water from, and with a pencil slowly tapped the insect into the glass. It slid out of the woodwork leaving no mark, a whole insect wriggling slowly in the bottom of the glass. Taylor whistled low. “How the hell did that do that?”Morris made no answer. Then his face contorted with frustration and anger. His foot lashed out with a force that took Taylor aback. One of the front legs of the desk splintered, and detached, the desk falling forward as the inspector stood back. Reaching down he rolled up the desk-top and kicked hard at the panelling at the base. With a tearing of wood the old desk, already abused by years of service in the Egyptian climate, broke apart. A handful of insects fell from inside the wood, no tunnels, no signs of burying, just fell straight out as if they had been part of the desk structure itself. Morris straightened up. His uncharacteristic act of violence had seemed to calm him back to his normal self. “Right. Lets stop playing around.”The wood smoke hung on the air, cloying and smelly, but the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk watched the furniture burn regardless. It had taken nearly the whole day, and considerable expense to convince the petty man in charge of the Hotel to allow her to do this. The owners had been contacted, telegrams had flown to London and Paris, and only at about noon, when hordes of the blasted insectoid things had started to pour from the walls and furniture across the hotel had the blasted man acceded to her wishes. Henry stoked the fire carefully, occasionally thrusting with a fire-iron from their old rooms into the mass to ensure nothing fell out. A few insects had made a bid for freedom when the pyre had been lit, but many they had been mindlessly circling, many of them dying as he watched, and easily brushed back onto piles of timber and cloth. Beside him Katrina stood, gazing into the flames, lost in a reverie of her own. If she was being honest with herself, and the Duchess prided herself on her analytical abilities, the furniture was the least of the causes of frustration. Since Henry’s capture of the strange insects nearly 24 hours previously, she felt that she had got nowhere except to a slightly less plush hotel. Katrina had not got the pendant, claiming that it would be better to let Kenton stew for a day with no food and little water, making him a softer target for her “questioning” later. The woman had been away all day soothing the Frenchman’s suspicions, only coming back this evening to check the progress of the Duchess’ move. On top of that her contact in London had been hopeless over the description cabled to him, except to say that it wasn’t the first time he had heard about these previously unknown insects. The man however had been infuriatingly imprecise in his reply as to where these had been previously seen, and the vagueness was preying upon her. Add to that Katrina’s unlucky encounter with the London policemen, and the apparent involvement of the Cairo underworld and Russian Communists, the whole picture was becoming confused. She felt strangely exposed, something that made her deeply uncomfortable, but there was little that could be done till the morrow, so she stood, and stared deep into the flames. D’Huberres arrived back at the safe house, satisfied and furious at the same time. The Bitch! She was betraying him! Again his suspicions had worked; again the sly, paranoid part of his brain that had kept him alive all these years had been correct. And people wondered why he was so distrustful! Following her yesterday had been hard. For a conspicuous woman Katrina could blend into the crowds of Cairo surprisingly well. Twice he had lost her, twice found her again, in a change of clothes, a different walk, but the trail had led at length to the Al-Azhar University where she had slipped inside, back her old, arrogant, but so seductive walk. Not fool enough to follow, he had waited, climbing onto one of the surrounding roofs to get a better view of the university buildings. And worthwhile it was, he thought. He had lurking in the shadows when James Bastard Kenton had walked past him, talking with some other European, well tanned and obviously well on the way to “going native”. Kenton looked jumpy, the other man more relaxed. They had gone up the front, not the side entrance like Katrina, but D’Huberres was no believer in fate or co-incidence, and continued his silent vigil. He clocked the thugs, waiting by the window. Hired muscle, paid to be stupid and tough, to ask no questions, and to never even try to put two and two together. He flexed his shoulder, felt the pain of the still-healing muscles, and waited. A shot. A pause. A shot. No-one on the street seemed to notice, the late evening crowds soaking up the noise that no-one but someone with his experienced ear would have heard. The muscle looked up to an unseen window, and headed into one of buildings. He clambered off the roof, wincing at the pain of movement. In the alley, knife out, a swift, brutal murder and one of Cairo’s many beggars became another unsolved crime for the local police to ignore. A better disguise in place, he slunk, hunched over and slow toward the side entrance, settling with a line of other beggars against a shop wall, keen eyes deep in the lice ridden hood watching the door. The muscle returned, carrying two large carpets over the shoulder. D’Huberres chuckled to himself at the lack of imagination – obviously she wasn’t getting help from Apep, who was more than capable of discreet body removal. They had to be Kenton and his companion. But… but…it could not be – a diversion while the American escaped again…he was torn – his instinct told to wait, that Katrina his target, that she should be followed, but the possibility that Kenton lay dead in the blankets was too much. He had to know if he had cheated of his vengeance. He followed. The muscle headed off towards the Nile. Ah, Crocodiles. Trash disposal for the criminal element. Confident in his superiority he followed discreetly, but they where taking no precautions. He expected that they had not long to live anyway; Katrina was not one for loose ends, especially such foolish ones as these. Which meant that they had to deliver their goods to the river and be allowed to leave to meet their fate elsewhere. Once he was confident of their destination, he cut away, back onto the rooftops – the pang at his shoulder telling him to take it easy – where he could observe the disposal safely. The first body out of the bag was Kenton’s companion, naked and shot through the head – a look of shock still on his face. The pair of locals efficiently hacked up the body with meat cleavers – they’ve done that before, something they are good at – and threw the still large chunks into the shallows, where they vanished into greedy crocodilian mouths. They moved to the second carpet, and D’Huberres craned forward, keen to see the dead face of James Kenton. Merde! Another Stranger! Even a day later the disappointment ran deep. He had not even stayed to watch the disposal, knowing that he had lost both Kenton and Katrina when he had them almost in his palm. He had arrived back at the safe house late and hungry and tired, to find the woman relaxed on the balcony, sipping a drink, and looking quietly satisfied. He could have killed her on the spot, and she simply turned to him and said, “Been out, Alphonse? I’m sure you should be resting that poor arm”But now, he thought, the advantage is mine. He spent the day playing suspicious, questioning her on the previous night, her trip to “check up on the ministry men”. He was irate, unsatisfied, but gradually he let her calm his fears, let her weave her spell on him, until she was satisfied he was back under her spell. And then when she left, he had donned the filthy rags stashed outside the house, and followed her again. This time there was no mistake, this time he followed her to the Hotel, and witnessed her in the garden speaking to some old English woman – only the English dress like that to burn furniture! – and now he would have his reckoning. Satisfied with the day’s events, his anger channelled, he turned the handle of the door to the safe-house. Taking a quick glance around he stepped inside – right into the barrel of a Thompson sub-machinegun. “I trust, Monsieur, that I have not wasted my time coming here” said the Indian, stepping past his bodyguard to glare at the startled Frenchman. Another day, and Cairo lay still under the hot noon-day sun. Inspector Morris and Sergeant Taylor pushed through the crowds towards the British Embassy, on the way to another meeting with the Ministry. Alphonse D’Huberres was explaining Katrina’s betrayal to the Indian in the safe-house, and awaiting her return and the reckoning it would bring. James Kenton, hungry, tired and increasingly frantic was lying in an anonymous basement awaiting interrogation, and he guessed, painful death. The Duchess was unpacking in her new Hotel, grumbling at the serving staff, and silently urging haste on the end of her sojourn here. Katrina stalked to Kenton’s basement, her pulse up, and cheeks flushed at the thought of the afternoon’s work to come. None of them paid any attention to the battered Ford 4-AT Trimotor “Tin Goose” as it descended from the clear blue skies towards the airport. An aircraft once the height of passenger transport, cutting-edge in the year of it’s introduction, the year of the Great Crash, now most were in private hands, it’s speed and range still a prized asset years after they had ceased being produced. Unmarked except for its registration, the corrugated aluminium body reflected the high sun through the clouds of dust kicked up by it’s three engines as it taxied to an empty bay stood off the main flight line. Inside the Chinaman waited, stood motionless by the main door. It had been nearly 24 hours since the death of the Mother, 24 hours of a freedom he had not experienced in decades, not since he had been snared and his will bent to that of the terrible creature in the cave. And now he was dying, as dependant upon her as the myriad crawling insects that she had spawned, but unlike them, wandering blindly and aimlessly until death overtook them, he knew enough to save himself. The Box would lead him to the Orichalcum, the Orichalcum would revitalise his ancient body, and the power that it granted him would be reward enough for his years of unwilling service. The door opened, and bright light flooded into the cockpit. He turned to the co-pilot, a useful hireling ignorant of the things he was involved in. “Stay here. I will not be long”. The Chinaman stepped out into the Cairene afternoon. Years in close proximity to the Mother had taught him many things, that the senses of the mind are greater than the senses of the body, that will is all, that the strong prosper, and the weak are enslaved or disposed of. He had felt the Mother weaken over the years, heard her frustration whispered through the ether, watched as the Brotherhood, the duplicates, Wilmarth, Harpenden, so many others defy her and pay the price, but every time getting further, every time it was easier, and he had waited. And his time was now. “Sir?” He looked down. A street urchin. They look the same everywhere, desperate, weak, starved. “I bring a message, from Apep, who rules the underworld. He senses you, he knows your power, and he will not interfere with you should you not interfere with him. Cross him and his vengeance will be terrible” The Chinaman smiled. A warning. A sign of weakness. He reached down to the boy. “Thank you. I have a message to send in return to this…Apep”And then he walked off into the town, following the beacon in his mind that was the key. Behind him on the dusty ground, throat slashed, blood draining into the earth, the urchin thrashed the last of his life away. Morris stalked into the British Embassy, a brown paper wrapped bundle under his arm and a tired looking Sergeant Taylor trailing behind him. The guard, now used to his daily visits, held the door for him, and the desk clerk picked up the phone to call Thatcher down from his rooms without prompting. Morris reached over to him and interrupted his call. “Tell him if he keeps me waiting again I’ll leave. He has five minutes.”The clerk looked surprised, but conveyed the message. Morris and Taylor stood at the desk and waited. Dragged from the basement, Kenton’s imprisonment had taken a turn for the surreal. From lightless starvation in a dank room stinking of mould and his own excrement, he had been washed, given clothes, and led to a comfortable room of draperies and cushions. Soft lighting filtered through the windows, but they where bared, and the door locked. Shrugging, Kenton settled into a pile of cushions to await whatever fate had in store for him next. The door opened. “Hello again James. I trust that they are treating you well” It was that woman again. She strode over to him, a lithe seductive walk, confident, sexual, and more than a little intimidating. He started to rise, but she reached him as he was on his knees and gently pushed him back onto the cushions, her legs straddling his as she pushed her weight onto his hips, and he folded backwards. “Relax James, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. A only came for a little chat”Her presence was intoxicating. The khaki shirt was too low, his eyes where drawn, despite themselves to her cleavage, the weight of her on top of him exacting a more primitive reaction, and he felt his new trousers tighten. She leaned forward, her face close to his, the deep brown eyes surprisingly soft as she stared, unblinkingly into his. She smiled. “Why Mr Kenton, you are quite forward. And we’ve only just met”Somehow he spoke. “Who – who are you. What do you want?”“Straight to business? You’re very direct” He tried banter. “Well, I wouldn’t want to waste your time”. Weak, James, weak. The smile again. Beautiful, sharp, like a shark. “Very well” She shifted her weight, grinding her hips against him. He grimaced, flushed. “The Pendant James. This is what it’s all about. Give it to me and you can go….or stay?” The promise hung the air, the carrot after the stick. “I don’t have it” “But I can’t believe that, James. I know you have it. You’re not wearing it, but you have it.” She leaned forward, less than an inch from his face, hair falling forward like a curtain on the rest of world. Just the two of them. He felt something touch his chest. “Perhaps you swallowed it? Safe, just waiting until it comes out again?” It was a knife. He hadn’t noticed she was carrying it. It was resting, point through the cloth of his shirt, straight into the base of his breastbone. Suddenly Kenton was no longer unsure whether to be terrified or attracted to this strange alluring killer. He was terrified. “..no…it’s safe…” He stammered. “Safe? Where would it be James? With someone?” The knife moved downwards, cutting through cloth, sending shivers up Kenton’s spine. “Not with the policemen, not with Outhwaite. Who do you know in Cairo that you trust?”Anadil paced the rooms of Outhwaite’s house. Two nights he had been gone, with no word. Even for a man as deeply involved with her Uncle’s ‘business’ as Peter was, since they have been together he had taken care to never be so long without sending a message. And with Uncle James turning up again…surely the only two men she had ever really trusted, ever loved, could come to no harm together? But the doubt nagged at her, and paced the house, fingering the Pendant that James Kenton had given to her to guard. Charles Thatcher looked shocked. About bloody time, thought Taylor. The bastard had been subject to a grilling by the Inspector, a quiet, thorough interrogation that had it had been a pleasure to be party to. It was the paperwork that did it. Morris had pulled letters, photographs and telegrams from Cairo and London, the result of a frantic night and morning on the telephone, at the cable office and in the dark Cairene streets with the two Nubians. Despite himself Taylor was warming to them, if only he could get his tongue around their damned strange names. “So in conclusion, Mr Thatcher,” Morris’ voice was collected, low and menacing. “This D’Huberres and your ‘rebellious’ Indian have the box. Kenton has the key. My contact is missing, probably dead, which means that Kenton, and the key are in the hands of either the Frenchman or the mysterious woman who is following us around. Or someone else. Or not.“My concern is what the Ministry’s involvement in all this is. Wakely was prepared to murder a British citizen to stop Kenton escaping with the Key. You have dragged myself and Sergeant Taylor across the world to catch D’Huberres on the pretext that we could identify him, yet I was able to get a damn fine description of him cabled from a contact in London on a mere mention of the name. I don’t think that we’re necessary for that, somehow.“So you need a catspaw. Unknowns. People who are not involved. That’s us. Wakely wanted agents that his enemies wouldn’t know, and you’re following his lead. Well I’ve had enough, Thatcher. You can level with us, and let us help you, or I’m getting on the next damn ship out of here and going back to London.”Thatcher sipped his tea, a comforting gesture, habitual, that seemed to relax him. “It’s not that simple, Inspector”“Don’t give me that”“It’s not. I don’t know what’s going on. I was briefed by Sir Archibald on only what he thought I need to know.””Sounds familiar” snorted Taylor.“I don’t know what’s in the box. I only know that I was told that if it where opened by anyone, anyone hostile to the Empire, that we would all be in great peril. He wanted you. Personally, Inspector. He held you in very high regard. I want to catch his killers, I want to stop this box, whatever it is, being opened. But I need you to do it.”He paused. The arrogance he had displayed in previous meetings had gone.“Please, Inspector.”Morris smiled, wolfishly. “Well, since you asked nicely, I have another surprise for you” Taylor grinned too. The moment he’s been waiting for. “Our investigations have borne fruit. We know where D’Huberres is staying. So get your men together, and lets go and pick him up. Maybe we’ll get this box of yours as well”Anadil screamed as the door exploded inwards in a shower of wood shards and orphaned nails. A gun! Peter kept a gun here somewhere! She sprinted into the bedroom, flung open his drawers, listening for the pad of footsteps behind her. There! She spun around, raising the pistol, pulling frantically at the trigger. Nothing! She closed her eyes as the figure came closer, trying to think of the instruction he had given her. Safety Catch. She fumbled with the weapon, eyes now open and frantically scanning the side of the gun for the catch she knew was there. There! She flicked with trembling fingers, looked up to the figure and…He felt the pendant. So close that he would taste with his mind. The house, another anonymous hovel in this festering and filthy city. The door, locked, but not strong. Inside through western furnishings, the Pendant moving in his mental landscape, with the screaming woman fleeing before his power. She had a gun, such a little thing. A shot, a tear in his body, a fleeting pain to be ignored, and he reached her, hands on her neck, a wrench, a twist and the terrified sobs ceased forever. As if another westerners’ whore in this city would be missed. He reached down to the corpse, and pulled the chain from around her ravaged and torn neck. The Key. His at last. He looked up, old, nearly sightless eyes unfocused as his mind hunted for a fainter signal. The box, it’s contents calling to him. He turned, leaving the house, and headed back into the late afternoon streetsKatrina reached the safe house feeling pleased with herself. Kenton had responded well to their little chat, and whilst he had been surprisingly hesitant to reveal where the Key was, she was confident that it would be in her possession soon. And she had learned so much else, of Wakely, and the Policemen. She smiled to herself. Men can be so talkative if given the right…incentives, she thought. She approached the door. “I wonder if the Indian is here yet?” she thought to herself. The telegram to bring him here, to be present for the endgame, and to bring the box to the Duchess without realising it, another clever trick. And she would soon be rid of poor Alphonse, and wouldn’t have to but up with his Gallic patronising any longer. She could here muffled conversation upstairs. He must be here. Excellent. “Ah, Katrina” The English educated voice greeted as she walked in. “Glad you could join us. How goes the hunt for my key?” “Very well. I should have it by tomorrow.” She saw the box on the table, next to the battered Wilmarth Manuscript, a nice bonus that. “Ah, the box. You brought it!”“Of course. There is little time to waste. Many forces move against us.”D’Huberres stepped forward from the shadows, close to her. “But you know that, don’t you, me cherie?”He backhanded her, his good arm slicing across his body, catching her under the chin throwing her back onto one of the low chairs. She leapt up like a cat, instantly, knife out, and then froze, eyes bright with rage. The D’Huberres’ gun was pointed straight at her, and the Indian’s two bodyguards both held weapons covering her. A mental calculation; her knife against D’Huberres pistol, Sanjit’s Thompson, Dijon’s shotgun. Not good. “You have betrayed us, Katrina.” The Indian continues, as if the frozen tableau of impending violence was perfectly normal. “To an English woman. An annoyance we will have to deal with after we have finished with you.”D’Huberres grinned at her. “It never pays to underestimate me, you should have known that.” “Hmmm. Please put the knife down, Katrina. There is no reason for this to be any more unpleasant than it has to be. Tell us about this Englishwoman, tell us what she wants. We may be able to reach a deal. We may be able to” - a pause, a smile - “remain friends” She spat at him, angrier at herself than at them. How could she have made such an error? “Fuck yourself”“Such language. You will help us Katrina, your skills as an information gatherer,” he smiled at the euphemism, “means that you know that will get our information, one way or another. All you can choose is the amount of pain and humiliation you suffer in the process.” She tensed. She was dead anyway, at least this smug bastard would go with her. D’Huberres must had sensed her mind, she saw him shift his gun for better aim. She counted in her head, counting to the moment, as the Indian calmly waited for her to make her choice. Three…Two…There was a knock at the door. Loud. Heavy. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. The two policemen, Thatcher and his ministry men, as well as the two Nubian heavies pushed through the early evening crowds, weapons packed in bags, heading for the safehouse identified in the previous long night’s work. “They picked a nice area, eh sir?”“What?” Morris was tense, feeling too old for evening shoot outs with international criminal gangs, no matter what the cause. “Well, look at the view, they got the Pyramids, that lion thing...”“The Sphinx”“…yeah, and look at the houses – posh things the lot of ‘em. Just the sort of place I’d hang out if I was in the run.”“Taylor?” Taylor grinned. “Yes sir, ‘shut up Taylor’, straight away sir”“Thank you, Taylor. And good luck for tonight” They heard it before they reached the house. Gunfire. The crack of pistols, then the long, instantly recognisable sound of a machine gun. The group froze for a moment, then, weapons unpacked, they started to run. The second knock was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. The tableau in the room upstairs stayed frozen, unsure.The Indian nodded to one of his men. “Dijon. Find out who it is. Kill them.” Dijon, a six foot six mulatto, and one of the Indian’s prized thugs, grunted and headed for the stairs. Another knock. A crash, like the remains of a thick wooden door falling to the floor. A shout, a shot, the deep crack of a shotgun, then steps up the stairs. The group at the top all turned to look. Dijon barrelled back through the door, backwards, firing the second barrel of his gun down the stairs. He cracked it to reload, but a figure, covered in blood from obvious shotgun blasts, reached forward and grabbed his arm. The giant screamed. The box was so close it inflamed his senses. The fool who had tried to stop him had hurt him deeply, the gunshots carving through his chest, his organs, burning his lungs, piercing his heart. He was stronger than that. He pressed forward, his will pushing his old and broken body up the stairs, through the second shot, till the massive figure had paused to fiddle with his weapon. A touch. Another of the Mother’s tricks, and his attackers lifeforce flowed into him, re-knitting bone, healing flesh, the man dropping, shrivelled to the floor. Four more fools guarded the box. He stepped forward, relishing the fight. D’Huberres fired, Tight accurate shots from his Astra M1921M slammed into the Chinaman, the .45ACP rounds blowing craters in his chest that should have stopped anyone. The Chinaman just walked towards him. But D’Huberres wasn’t suffering Dijon’s fate – he flung his self sidewards as the gun’s magazine ran dry, shouting “Shoot Him!!” at Sanjit who was standing thunderstruck with Thompson loose in his grasp. He landed in a corner, fumbling for a spare magazine, the Chinaman advancing on Sanjit, the greatest threat standing. As the Chinaman reached out for him, both the Indian, white with fear, and D’Huberres, slotting a new clip into his Astra, screamed at him to fire, but it too late, the short burst cut off as the Chinaman’s clawlike hands grabbed his arms. The smoking Thompson fell to the floor, clattering next to the Indian as Sanjit screamed as his life was sucked away. The Indian reached for the box, but a knife suddenly appeared in his arm, and he shrieked, dropping it, and Katrina caught it in midair and turned to escape. The Chinaman, injuries rehealed – but not all, D’Huberres noticed as he raised the pistol, this thing is killable – turned after her. She was fast, but not fast enough. The Chinaman grabbed her throat, fist tightening and D’Huberres could see her fighting for breath as he choked the life out of her. D’Huberres fired. The “M” model of the Spanish-built Astra was distinctive for one thing. It could be fired fully automatically. The selector switch moved, the 8-round magazine emptied in a couple of seconds, a single, wild burst at close range into the back of the Chinaman. A window shattered, the desk splintered, and D’Huberres target staggered back, dropping the unconscious Katrina and giving the injured Indian precious seconds to try to get the box and get clear. D’Huberres himself slumped back against the wall, the recoil tearing his damaged shoulder muscles again, the strength gone from his arm, the empty pistol dropping to the ground amongst the pile of discarded casings. The Indian grabbed the box from the downed woman, and sprinted out of the door. The Chinaman straightened himself, his clothes tattered, blood running from partially healed wounds across his body. Will. It is all Will. He moved. Leaving the room, the Frenchman, the Woman, behind, after the fleeing man carrying the box. He heard the man stumble of the stairs, his panicked haste betraying him. He followed, a Dark Angel of Death, no rush now, confident of final victory. The Indian had fallen at the foot of the stairs, twisting his ankle, dragging himself away from the room and the thing that was pursuing him with his one good arm, the box gripped in his blood-soaked injured arm. He made it to the street before he was caught, lifted up by the throat by the wizened old man that had somehow survived all that his men had thrown at him. “Fool” The cracked voice spoke to him, the last thing he would hear, filling his world. “I have them both, and I will have the power.”The Chinaman dropped the corpse, and taking the box, strode off with a purpose towards the vast ancient monuments in the near distance. D’Huberres looked up, the pain from his shoulder fogging his vision, straight along the barrel of Sanjit’s Thompson. Katrina looked down back at him, a slight smile on her face. “It looks like we all lose, Alphonse darling. My apologies for underestimating you. You saved my life there. Now I save yours.” The gun was pulled away, and then she was gone. He stood up, and moved to the shattered window. In the street the body of the Indian lay surrounded by onlookers, and entering the small plaza on the far side, guns brandished, was the two policemen from New Brighton. “Merde.” And deep in the Waha, in a darkened room in a Qahwa behind an ancient fountain, a voice shaken with rage and grief issued a command his shaken followers, one that would spread through the Cairene underworld in a matter of hours. “They have taken the life of that which is dearest to me! A curse on the Westerners who have brought Death to my city. Kill them. Kill them all!”Back to Table of ContentsChapter 15Blood and DeathBy Stephen CowleyDeath was no stranger to D’Huberres. If he had been given to whimsy he might have said it was practically family. Over long years he had come to the conclusion that a quick death was a good death. The quicker the better.Judged by these criteria the deaths of Sanjit and Dijon had seemed as good as any. A single touch; no time to scream, no pain simply slight surprise and a thud as your body struck the ground.As he turned back from the window D’Huberres began to doubt this. The bodies had begun to change. The skin remained unbroken, unblemished even. But underneath that skin D’Huberres changes of a nature that he could only speculate on seemed to be occurring.Within that bag of skin the very flesh, muscle, sinew and organs, seemed to be melting, turning liquid. The body seemed to be pooling, flattening against the floor. However restrained by clothing these bags of liquid flesh retained some semblance of a body. Hands were flattening, fingers were losing definition and becoming little more then mittens crushed in a steam press, flattened to a greater size then normal.The bones appeared to remain untouched or so Alphonse assumed, unable to account for the oddities of the head otherwise. The features remained intact, save the noise which had fallen inwards, even if such features were stretched beyond recognition as the flow of liquid flesh tested the elasticity of the skulls skin to it's limit as it settled in an ever expanding circle behind the heads.Manipulating the release on his pistol's magazine with his right arm brought a wince of pain to D’Huberres face. A good job he could shoot with his left. He pulled a magazine out of his jacket pocket. His last, he'd have to be careful with his shots if he had any chance of getting out of here alive. He flicked the switch on the back of his Astra M1921M to single shots.D’Huberres paused next to Sanjit's body. He'd known Sanjit for years, long before they had both ended up in the pay of the Indian and he might have almost been a friend. Except in D’Huberres line of work you never had friends. Friends were a liability, a weak spot, something that got you killed. At least live friends did. Dead friends however, D’Huberres had many of those. It was safe now, Sanjit could be admitted to be a friend. Time for one last passing gesture for friendship sake. For Sanjit, Dijon was a cunt and deserved no better.Squatting D’Huberres carefully laid his hands on Sanjit’s forehead to close his eyes in death. Eyes are truly the window to the soul. They can show you love and hate better then a thousand words. They can speak the true and reveal a lie better then the best body language. And in the dead they are cold and empty.Sanjit's eyes were not the eyes of a dead man. Somehow life still existed there. D’Huberres stared into them. Not just life but awareness and sanity. They know their fate, they reflected the pain of having your body melt away around you.A cold hard hand grasped D’Huberres heart. Bile rose in his throat. All the death he'd seen and all the death he'd caused and nothing prepared him for this, the unspeakable horror of it all. He was a child again, open and vulnerable as he had been the day he had to wipe his father’s brains from his face.Unthinking, with pure primal impulse D’Huberres rose and fired. Straight into Sanjit’s head. Point blank range the bullet ripped flesh and shattered skull and splashed brain. Another round, and another. The fourth and fifth reserved for the largest pieces left.Three steps towards Dijon, a round at each step soon decapitated Dijon as well. D’Huberres was brought back to himself by the metallic and futile clicking sound of an empty magazine. With the skin scattered to the four winds, the liquid flesh was no longer restrained. It poured across the floor, swirling around the spent cartridges, soaking everything in a thick, viscose liquid, part blood, part shit and part flesh.D’Huberres reached into his jacket pocket. Desperate times called for desperate measures.Thatcher lead the way, a brand new lever arch shotgun cradled in his arms. Next came the ministry men, Thurlwell and Grey, one behind each shoulder. Thurlwell was a stocky Yorkshireman with rampant sideburns, Grey was a bland as his name silent and restrained. Their shotguns were less shinny then Thatcher’s but held no less confidently. Jock and Baker had broken away from the group and headed down a back alley, cover the rear. The unimaginatively named Jock was a Glaswegian who defied the stereotype, blond, calm and softly spoken. Baker was London born and set every single one of Taylor’s copper instincts haywire. Julius the driver got left by the van, youngest of them all he seemed to have a lot to prove. Too young for the war he handled his gun with a nervousness long forgotten by the others. Taylor and Morris brought up the rear, borrowed revolvers in their hands.Their destination door was open and a strange Arabic crowd gathered around something on the floor a short distance away. The crowd was strange, focused inwards, agitated and upset, too densely packed to give any clue as to the nature of their focus. Taylor realised the door was not simply open, but totally off its hinges. Thatcher realised moments later. He held up his hand to stop them. Suddenly five shots, each one rapidly following on the heels of the previous one, rang out. As if they came from a starter pistol the Arabic crowd surged forwards, stomping and shouting. Three more shots followed at a more controlled and measured pace. Thatcher waved them forwards, and broke into a jog. Thurlwell and Grey kept paced and even Taylor broke into a jog, caught up in the spirit of the affair. Morris however refused to get involved and kept up a steady pace.Thatcher took the fallen door with a single jump shouting “Grey take the downstairs.” as he cleared the door before slowing as he saw the state of the hallway. A thick liquid seeped down the stairs, it had pooled on the top three steps and as they watched it overflow the third step and became a waterfall of dark liquid cascading onto the next step.Thatcher’s hesitation only lasted a few seconds and he took the steps three at time, shotgun levelled at the door. Thurlwell and Taylor followed, close behind. With every step a rank and unpleasant smell filled their nostrils. Taylor had smelt it once before, it was the essence of death. Taylor’s war had been spent at sea, serving on many ships. One ship was sent to pull the wounded out of Gallipolli. They'd loaded her with as many wounded as they could before she sailed. Far more then she should have ever taken. The walking wounded were left on decks, it was hot but there was food and water and medical care for them. The living dead, men who refused to die they went below decks, in the hold. Row upon row of bunk beds, pilled high with wounded stacked like so much firewood. Little water, less food and none of the over worked doctor wasted their time on them, there were lives to save. Wounds festered, bandages left unchanged and dripped their pus on the injured below. Men died and their bowels voided, joining the blood on the floor. The living lay with the dead, each as uncared for as the other. The screams became moans and the moans became silence. Once Taylor passed the open door that led to the hold and there he smelt it, the very essence of death.It grew stronger as they climbed the stairs. The door at the top of the stairs was open, swinging idly on its hinges. They went through the door, guns levelled.The room was a tattered mess. The signs of violence were there for all to see. A jagged line of bullet holes were cut across the roof, the doorframe was pitted and splashed with blood. Shining bullet cases could be seen glinting up from the thick, almost black liquid that flowed across the floor. Two strangely shaped bundles of clothing lay on the floor, the fabric soaking up this liquid. An eye stared up from the floor, Taylor looked again. Random lumps became skull fragments and pieces of brain, the strange shape became a rib cage. Taylor’s mind jumped. Somehow this bags of clothes had once been men. Which made this liquid... the source of the stench of death became all to clear to Taylor. His eyes rested on D’Huberres. The Frenchman sat on a chair. His legs resting up out of the muck. A cigarettes in his left hand. Thatcher stared at him, gun levelled. Alphonse took a long deep draw at his cigarette, the smell of the cloves being washed away by the stench that surrounded them all. He looked at Taylor.“Mr Policeman. I wish to surrender. It is, how you say ‘A fair cop’.” He held his hands out for the cuffs.The limp was an annoyance. Stolen life force had knitted torn flesh and shattered bone. But it had not expelled all the intruding lead. Most were inconsequential, lodged in organs long since atrophied, forgotten and upgraded. One however was an annoyance. A small pellet lay trapped between knee cap and shine bone. And there it grated and ground. Life repaired the flesh, but to exert control to expel the pellet required will, a finite resource. So it remained, an annoyance.The box and amulet sat secure against his body. Pressed against his flesh the power was a siren call - almost begging him to open the box. It seemed to tell him he was strong enough, he could open the box, he could control the power. But he knew better; the power would destroy him unless handled with care and attention.Newly acquired Arabic robes covered his blood stained and bullet-ridden clothing. Masking him as nothing more than one of Cairo’s horde of filthy limping beggars to the eyeless fools who swarmed these streets. These winding, nameless, identical streets. Summoned by the blazing power of the box he had paid scant attention to his route out, the return route to the airport was a mystery to him. He was lost.He could feel the swirling memories of those who he had sacrificed to rebuild his body. One of them would know the route to the airport. He tried to drag the knowledge from them by main force of will. But it was like a dam breaking, a swirling torrent of emotions surged over him, threatening to drown him, drag his personality down, fill his body with their essence, lift his arms and take a breath of sweet air again. He tried to stand firm, let the wave break across him like a rock. Like a rock at high tide he was covered. He could feel his left hand tighten under another direction. Another seeking to lift his foot. But there they fall apart, a united mass they were irresistible, as singular entities they were no match. Seizing this moment of weakness he drove them back, pulling them deep down inside of him. A sign of how far he had fallen, how much age had withered him, how weak he was becoming with the death of the mother. A few ragged personalities had almost driven him from his own body. Now back under control he would hold them deep until they dissolved and bothered him no more.A cane struck him hard in his chest.“Out of my way.” The voice was English, well-rounded vowels, crisp consonants, patrician in tone. The accent one he had heard many times in his dealings with the Brotherhood. Proud men begging at his feet for their lives at first, pleading for their deaths in the end. And this worthless fop poked him.Rage boiled up from within him. A lifetime of anger controlled in the service of the mother welled up. Hate burned in his eyes as he reached out to suck the life from this man. His body cried out for it, needed it to mend itself. He could almost taste the man’s soul. Would it be the mellow taste of a life well lived, the bitter taste of regret, the sweet taste of innocence, the sour taste of sin? All with the tang of fear. His earlier taste seemed to have whetted his appetite not given him his fill.He stopped. His instincts and body in revolt against his will. Stop, enough, no more, another could destroy me. He bowed his head and stepped aside.“Very sorry sir.” He locked eyes with the Englishman. His will mastering the Englishmen, implanting dark desires in him. Fear blossomed in the Englishman's eyes.“I should bloody well think so.” All bluster. He strode away, ignoring the shiver up his spine. The Chinaman smiled to himself. Revenge would be slow. The seed would blossom that night into madness, his family would pay for the man’s rudeness in pain and blood. Unless his character were truly good and then such desires would take no hold, or his will strong enough to control them but such men were few.He must find the airport. Time was short.“Keep your hands where I can see them and don't try any funny stuff. Taylor, Cuff him.” Thatcher’s shotgun was pointed unwaveringly at D’Huberres chest.“Me?” Taylor started to regret his enthusiasm in keeping up with Thatcher. He pulled his cuffs out of his pocket and pistol levelled made he slowly made his way round behind D’Huberres, keeping his back to the wall as he went.D’Huberres sat, unconcerned, smoke drifting up from his cigarette.Taylor got behind the Frenchman.“All right D’Huberres hands behind your back.” Taylor tried to keep his voice as firm as possible.D’Huberres dropped his cigarette into the floor where it was quenched by the thick gunk. He held his arms out behind his back. Taylor grabbed his right arm and slapped the cuffs on. D’Huberres winced but remained calm. Taylor slapped the other cuff on.“We've got him boys.” Thatcher’s enthusiasm was palatable. He stepped forwards and with a hard swing of his shotgun smashed the Frenchman to the floor.“All right then you animal, talk.” Without even the slightest pause he brought his shotgun down hard on D’Huberres leg.“Is this how you treat your prisoners Sergeant Taylor? I have surrendered.” He looked up at Taylor, trying to pull his face out of the muck. Taylor dithered. Thatcher brought his boot round it D’Huberres's stomach. D’Huberres folded round it and slumped back to the slimy floor.“Enough of that Mr Thatcher.” The inspector had finally arrived. He struck a match and lit his pipe. He puffed slowly, building the fire in the bowl. “I'm sure Mr D’Huberres is willing to co-operate. So let’s start with. What happened here.” He waved his pipe stem to indicate the room. D’Huberres struggled back up a little.“Well. This small Chinaman I'd never seen before, smashed the door of it's hinges and dissolved two hulking men with a touch. It seemed to shrug off bullets like they were water. My employer grabbed the box and ran. I don't think he got very far. I expect that this Chinaman now has the” His speech was broken by another hard blow from Thatcher.“Mr Thatcher. This man has surrendered. We can question him at our leisure back at the embassy.” Morris tone was firm.“Hear that D’Huberres, you get a little break.” Thatcher bent down and pulled D’Huberres to his feet by the cuffs “Come on now. Coming inspector Morris?”“Want to have a quick look round first.” The inspector replied.“No need I'll have a man posted here we can come back at our leisure. But I want to get this little beauty home first.”“Very well Mr Thatcher, I'll give the place a preliminary once over and then be down.” He turned to Taylor “Please stay and lend me a hand.”As Thatcher marched D’Huberres down stairs Morris leant over to Taylor.“Taylor, I think I’ve just worked out why I’m here.” Taylor looked at the Inspector with a blank expression. “Why Sir Archibald wanted me on this case. Thatcher’s good, hard and competent. But he just totally ignored D’Huberres story even though there are two inexplicable corpses in this room. Now I’m not saying that D’Huberres story is even vaguely accurate but I’m not willing to write it off till I’ve looked into things. I’m willing to believe. Keep an open mind Taylor, there is more here then a simple case of duplicates and melted corpses.” Taylor went from puzzled attention to open mouthed disbelief at the last statement. “You know what I mean Taylor.” Morris snapped back.Taylor and Morris subjected the room to a swift, professional search. The diamond of the find was an old battered canvas document case that lay on the floor near the desk. The wax treated surface had protected the bundle of rough documents contained within. The inspector quickly riffled through the papers. Puffing the pipe all the while. The strong tobacco smoke seemed to be keeping the stench at by for Morris, but no such luck for Taylor.“This is important. It's as disorganised as hell but I've already seen references that make me think this is relevant. Come on let’s go. Hopefully we'll still have a captive by the time we get down the stairs. Besides, you've gone green Taylor.” The stench had got too much. Taylor bolted to the open window and hurled his stomach out into the alleyway below.Jock and Baker, hidden further down the alleyway, lowered their rifles and laughed at Taylor. The alleyway was a narrow, dark and dingy place. Other heavily curtained windows overlooked the alleyway, they twitched slightly. It was filled with rotten rubbish and a few Arabs were making there way up the alley way, the air was heavy and still without a hint of wind.“All clear up there Taylor?” Jock shouted.“Got to be pretty bad if he thinks this place is fresh air.” Baker added. He offered Jock a cigarette, they both sparked up, Jock bending low over Baker match to light his cigarette.“Come on Taylor.” Morris patience seemed to have worn thin.“Yes sir.” Taylor took a deep breath and pulled himself back in the room, hoping to clear the foetid stench before it overcame him. Suddenly screams and a shot rang out from the alleyway below. Taylor turned and hurled himself to the window, pulling his revolver out of its holster.The Arabs had drawn level with the two relaxed men from the ministry and knives had flashed in the confined space of the alleyway. Jock was down on the floor, a bleeding stomach wound and his arm sliced to the bones in three places. Two figures were bent over him, knives in hands finishing him off. Baker was still standing, trying to bring his rifle to bear as he wrestled over it with an Arab. A knife wound in his leg was bleeding heavily but that attacker was down, a rifle round fired point blank into his face had left a bloody ruin. Taylor fired into the alleyway. The dull clunk of the safety catch was his only reward. He fumbled with it, the switch stiffer than expected. Baker released his hold on the rifle, bringing his hobnailed boot up hard into the Arab’s crotch. His opponent folded, Baker caught the rifle before it hit the ground and spun working the bolt. Jock’s killer was finished with him, lunging at Baker. He blocked low, the rifle steering the attacker’s arm wide. But as he slid the bullet home he got a knife in the throat.Taylor seconds late fired down into the alley. Firing high to avoid hitting Baker, hoping scare the attacker away, hoping Baker was alive despite the blood fountaining from his throat. Taylor fired again, depressing his aim, catching the Arab in the leg. His position from above gave him a commanding view of the alleyway and left the Arabs no room to manoeuvre, Thatcher and his boys would soon arrive and they'd get Jock out.Realisation dawned on Taylor face. It was a trap, heavily armed attackers hid behind the curtains waiting for Thatcher’s boys to rush to their compatriots’ aid. Taylor swung his gun up, firing blindly into a heavily curtained window before crouching beneath the window still. A volley of fire raged around him. Taylor kept his head down, as bullets whizzed through the open window. There was a pause. Anywhere between four and eight attackers stationed on the other side of the alleyway. He hoped Thatcher and his boys had enough sense to stay out of the alleyway it was a death trap. Taylor sprinted, darted from side to side, a few bullets whizzed past him, sending clouds of plaster dust into the air. Taylor hurled himself head first through the door to the room and down the stairs. With a series of thuds and crashes Taylor bounced down the stairs. The bumps and bruise he received were preferable to a bullet in the back. Morris pulled Taylor to his feet."Baker? Jock?" Morris asked. Taylor just shook his head. Morris helped Taylor out of the door, his journey down the stairs and left him sore but nothing a few minutes rest would not cure.The lorry had pulled up outside, and Thatcher and Thurlwell were sheltering behind it snapping shots at random down the alleyway, keeping their fire high. Grey waited back to the wall next to the entrance to the alleyway, waiting to go in. D’Huberres was knelt on the floor, Julius’s shotgun pressed hard into the back of his neck.“What the hell is happening?” Thatcher hurled at them as soon as they emerged into the sunlight.“No idea.” Taylor shook his head to clear it. “Some kind of ambush, Jock and Baker are dead. Maybe as many as eight of them.”Thatcher paused for a second.“Julius start her up and pull her forwards a bit, were getting out of here. Well come back for our boys and vengeance as soon as we've got Mr D’Huberres here safely away. Another two for your score D’Huberres. We'll be back.”The van pulled forwards a bit, Taylor dumped in first, followed by Morris. They pulled D’Huberres after them and cuff him to the frame of the vehicle.“You really don't know anything about this do you D’Huberres?” Asked Morris.“These Arabs are unreliable at best. No matter how much we paid them they'd never come to our aid when we've already lost. Especially as the man who'd pay them is dead. Something else is behind this”Grey ran forwards and jumped into the passenger seat next to Julius while Thatcher and Thurlwell hoped into the back of the truck.“Go.” Shouted Thatcher and with a roar Julius stamped hard on the accelerator.His massively swollen fingers twisted his opulent rings round and round. A nervous habit from his days of youthful folly long since placed in it's grave. Resurrected this day when it was needed least, but when else would such things return? A reminder of the weakness of the flesh against that of pure sprit. He lifted his goblet, staring into it's depths as if he were seeking the future in the silty dregs at the bottom. Irritated he placed it on the table again.Two goblets already drunk that day, as much as he had ever done before. His power spent but more remained to be done.With great difficulty he bent down and pulled a collection of earthenware bottles and pots. The procedure was time honoured. A dash of honey to sweeten the mix. A generous of measure of hash oil, pure and unadulterated to awaken the mind. Pure water from a sacred Oasis far into the heart of the Sahara to appease the old gods whose rituals this was, sand from the same. A suspension of gold flakes and diamond dust, the rejection of physical wealth. A tiny pinch of ground dust stolen from the black stone at the heart of Mekka, rarest of all ingredients, to gain the blessing of almighty Allah. And finally a mixture of the venom of the scorpion and the cobra, enough to kill a dozen men. With a gentle motion he stirred the mixture with the finger bone of Pharaoh.His goblet refilled he swirled it slowly round and round, until raising it to his lips and taking a deep draught. Bitter, deeply bitter despite the honey. He swallowed deep the grit and grain tickling the back of this throat. His sprit rejoiced, growing in strength shaking of the chains of the flesh. His body grew cold as the numbing sensation of the poison filled his veins, his heart slowed. Free his sprit soared, free from the tawdry flesh it hurtled towards the light, offering heaven if only the body would be abandoned forever.Will held it back. Will kept the heart beating and the sprit controlled. Will maintained him on the knife edge weaken the body to allow the sprit to fly but enough to hold it to earth. Will turned his eyes away from the light, focusing his sprit on matters earthly.His city should be a flickering network of lights, their dancing passage leaving echoes of the past and hints of the future, letting him divine the pulse of the city like a sailor reads the wind.As it had been all day it was twisted, all bent and turned by a single burning presence. The stranger, his arrival had been forewarned. Dark presence stalked the street, hungry dangerous presence, shadows thrown by his power. Such a force was beyond Apep's understanding. He was a raging forest fire to Apep's candle. Apep had seen this power destroy his beloved niece, but to blame him was to blame the lightning. Blame those that brought him here. They would pay the price.Drawn like the moth to the flame Apep stared at the burning power. Even it’s sheer intensity seemed to threaten to destroy him. The burning seemed less intense as his mind’s eyes became accustomed to the burning. Or was it? Or had the fires them selves dimmed? Revelation. This thing was weakening. Every second that passed it weakened. And at the heart of the blazing fire a mortal man, no angel of death, it could be killed. True Vengeance could be his. He returned to his body, his power might not match this figure, but in this city his arm was long, and there are many types of power. He summoned his lieutenants there was much to do.Julius sounded the horn long and hard. Without looking what lay ahead Thatcher shouted forwards “Drive through them.”Whether or not Julius heard him he changed direction, choosing to go round the cart in front of him. It was a tight fit and meant hugging close to the wall. Which was the whole point of the cart. Julius slowed the truck a little.It was large rock, a boulder more then anything and it had taken the three men and a winch to get it to the roof. As the lorry passed near them, they pushed it over the edge so the truck would run straight into it. Their timing was off ever so slightly not that it made much difference as the rock smashed straight into the bonnet of the truck. The bonnet simply crumpled under the weight and engine followed suit. The impact smashed the engine free, breaking the front axis bringing the truck to an immediate stop. The windscreen shattered. Most of the glass flew harmlessly, Grey was hit by a dozen pieces but they were small and mainly struck flat to the body. Young Julius was not so lucky, a single, thing sliver of glass with unmatched malevolence flew straight into Julius’ eye, and from there into his brain. He never even knew he died. D’Huberres would have called it a good death.The three Arabs on the roof exalted. Their ambush had worked, Apep would award them well for their work today. Their compatriot on the ground ran forwards with a knife to finish the shocked westerners. He hopped up on to the footplate next to the truck and sunk his knife deep into the Julius chest. Grey lifted his shotgun and fired. The range was so close that the pellets had little chance to spread out before they struck the attacking Arab in the chest, creating a neat circle of blood.The Arabs on the roof panicked, their prey was still very much alive. They grabbed for their rifles. A grunt proceeded a large very heavy round metal object thrown from below. Their few seconds of silent incomprehension before the panic, did not actually doom the three men on the roof, they were dead already. But their proximity to the grenade meant that less shrapnel injured innocents nearby. With a roar the grenade exploded sending ball bearings flying. The attackers were scythed down, even their own mothers would not have recognised the remains. The roof collapsed, unable to handle the sudden explosions. The family that lived there were out, save for the mother and her youngest daughter. The daughter for the rest of her days would fear the dark, a response to the hours she spent trapped under rubble. Her mother would never fear anything again. Fortunately for Taylor and Morris the outer wall was made of sterner stuff, it merely shuddered under the impacts.“Where the hell did you get that Grenade?” Thatcher asked. As questions on people’s minds at the time it was one that they wanted answering. Along with “What the hell just happened” and “Why the hell is this happening.”“I used to play cricket.” Thurlwell said, failing to answer the question. Grey pulled him self up through the broken windscreen, shotgun levelled keeping a look out.“Engine’s totalled sir and Julius is dead.” Grey shouted over his shoulder.“Bloody Hell.” Thatcher took a second to control himself. “Right we better get back to the embassy.”“Mr Thatcher.” Taylor spoke up hesitantly. “The embassy is a long way and we’re on foot now. McPherson’s place is closer.”“Good call Taylor. McPherson’s place it is. And everybody be on your guard. There's got to be a limit to how many attacks our guest can arrange, but keep your eyes open. They'll give up soon enough.”Henry raised a single eyebrow at Katrina’s appearance. It was as close to a question as he ever got.“You'd better come in. Her Ladyship’s having afternoon tea with the ladies from the embassy. If you wait on the balcony I shall inform her you have arrived. I'll have a... lemonade sent out to you." The pause was as Henry weighed her need for a stiff drink against the likelihood of her needing her wits about her. He'd obviously decided she'd need her wits. Henry vanished off into the back of the gargantuan suite the Dowager Duchess had taken. Katrina headed for the balcony.She flopped into one the large wicker chairs and dropped the Thompson wrapped in her coat onto another. A heavy striped awning kept the sun from her eyes and a cool breeze seemed to refresh her. Henry had long since developed a subtle code system with their mutual employer, letting her know his assessment of the situation that required her attention. If the ladies from the embassy were being useful or amusing she might have time on her hands.Katrina reached over unwrapped the Thompson and gave it the once over. Say what you like about Sanjit, absolute cunt or not, he cared for his weapon. She ejected the cartridge and cleared the chamber. He'd got ten rounds off, Henry would be able to get more rounds and another magazine, it would make her feel more secure. For all the good it had done Dijon. Her hand dropped to her belt. And another knife, hers was left behind in that room. Nothing to link her, but annoying, a good knife was heard to come by, and that one had some grand memories stained into it's blade.The lemonade arrived, as did the Duchess. Obviously Henry had chosen a high priority code, or else the ladies were being particularly boring and uninteresting.“This had better be...” The Duchess trailed off as she saw the state of Katrina’s clothing, the heavy marks around her neck already bruising and the semi-stripped Thompson on the desk. She sat down in one of the chairs.“Brandy, two glasses, run a bath and lay put fresh clothes.” She said to Henry, who nodded in agreement.“Oh and Henry, I need more .45 ammo, a couple more magazines and a new knife as well. And you might want to replace your derringer with something with more... stopping power.” Katrina added.The duchess sat quietly waiting for Katrina. She took a long draw of her lemonade before starting.“I'm sorry. I made a terrible mistake. I underestimated D’Huberres.” Katrina blurted.“Oh dear.” Utterly calm. “That is unfortunate. Still you’re alive which is always good.”“They were going to kill me. But...”“Yes dear, I know.” The Duchess interrupted. “Thatcher and his men turned up. Apparently that Inspector is more inspired then we realised and he tracked D’Huberres down. One of the ladies from the Embassy told me she'd overheard her husband talking to Thatcher. You got out alive. That's the main thing.” Her voice trailed as Katrina shock her head. “But that's not what happened is it?”Katrina quickly told her everything. The Indian, the box, the unstoppable Chinaman. Her voice was calm and flat. She ended and silence hung in the air between her and the dowager duchess. She ended her tale.“It's all true.” Even Katrina had a hard time believing it.“Well of course it is.” The duchess smiled at Katrina shocked expression. “You've never really believed that this is anything more than a struggle for wealth and power have you? But I think you do now. Nothing you could have done dear. You got yourself out alive which is better then most could have done. If you could have grabbed the Wilmarth manuscript on your way out it would have been a bonus, but I understand you were somewhat distracted at the time. It seems that our friend the Chinaman has the box and from the speed he located the box, I suspect that he'll have the amulet in rapid time too. I'm afraid you’re going to have to skip your bath and fresh clothing and go and get me Kenton. Bring him to me as quick as you can."“Kenton? But if the amulet’s been taken he's worthless.” Katrina had a quizzical tone in her voice.“Worthless my dear? Far from it. If the Chinaman's got the amulet and the box he's got both the lock and the key so all he needs is the Gate and that's not going anywhere. Worthless? Can you think of a better emissary to Thatcher and his ever so bright Inspector?” The Duchess had shed a single tear when her beloved husband had died. She never cracked, she was the epitome of English reserve, an iron lady. Her voice was filled with dread. “And go quickly dear. Were running out of time. All of us are.”The journey to McPherson’s was the stuff of nightmares. Two minutes from the crashed truck they learnt that they were going to have to steer clear of the main streets. A heavy crowd, a jostle and Grey was down. A knife between his ribs, his lung punctured he wheezed his last while there assailant made his escape in the crowd, they never even know who he was. So they got off the main roads and into the empty back streets. The haunt of thieves and murderers, at least here they could treat everybody they saw as an enemy. It was close to the truth. The entire underworld seemed to be after their blood.At first the going was easy their flight into the back streets of Cairo seemed to wrong foot their opponent. They struck out, changing directions often, but always trying to head towards McPherson’s place, hoping that this would throw their pursers of the mark.But soon the attacks started. No co-ordinated campaign, no pattern just violence. Sometimes a sporadic exchange of gunfire, sometimes close fighting, always blood. A running battle through the streets of Cairo, the roar of gunfire in confined spaces ringing in their ears, dying slowly to painful silence as the ammunition ran out.No one who survived the journey could remember it fully, but fragments would return to haunt them for as long as they lived.Taking the wrong turning and getting trapped in a dead end. Pinned in the corner as shots winged past their heads. Shooting back down the alleyway to keep the attackers heads down, scattering rounds like they were plentiful, building regret for later. Morris spotting a way out, a long since boarded door that lay on the other side of the alleyway to them. Shotgun rounds bursting the wood asunder and a mad dash across the alley to the dark interior. A bullet coming so close that Morris would be forever grateful that he dressed to the left.Hand to hand fighting, Taylor shoulder-charging his opponent to the ground, raising a seized knife to finish him off, to find himself staring at a grubby Arab boy. His good heart and hesitation earned him a knife in the thigh before anger sent the boy into oblivion.Taking to the roofs for a rare breather. And having to flee down through a Harem. Bringing their world of pain and blood into a land of silk and scents. The giggles of the ladies turning to screams as the shooting started.The slow dawning realisation that D’Huberres was as much a target as the rest, Thatcher’s refusal to free him even then. Changed only when hand to hand and overborne by a burly Arab, forcing his knife against Thatcher throat with grim certainty. A vicious kick swinging the fortunes of that encounter. D’Huberres warming his freed wrists as Thatcher warned him “I'll be watching you.”No one remembered firing the final round of ammunition, but suddenly they were out. It was knives and fist from there on in. The advantage shifting to there attackers.Morris roaring in pain, a mad berserker strength flowing from deep within him, snapping the neck of an attacker and hurling his broken corpse down the alleyway, bowling advancing Arabs to the ground.Tanner slumping to the ground dead, a long slow bleeding stomach wound that finished him off. Surprise and confusion as no one know that he had even been injured, a fact somehow lost in the endless fighting and pain.And then McPhersons’ place. All well manicured gardens and shining gas lights. McPherson relaxing in a wicker chair on the Veranda, smoking a pipe relaxing in the evenings’ cool. A whole other world to those that staggered in.With an audible crack the wing of his plane fall to the floor. The flames were spreading quickly roaring all the around the aircraft burning with an intensity that would leave nothing but the remains of a twisted skeleton. No more able to fly then it's master.The pilot’s life would be forfeited for this. Were he not lying on the floor, his throat slit, arranged to match the boy his master had killed on arrival.The fires burned higher, throwing flickering shadows across the landing pad. No authorities came to still the burning plane. The hand of this individual, this Apep, was longer then the Chinaman had thought. Rage built within him. This gnat tried to stop him, delaying him, no conception of what he did. The Chinaman would take pleasure in smashing him. But such things could wait, soon he would have the power to return and deal with this man at his leisure, to deal with all that annoyed him. But time was precious.The rifle round punched into his lower back, tearing flesh and damaging long forgotten, upgraded organs. Will closed the passage of the bullet again. The Chinaman staggered, turning to find his attacker. The airport was empty. A flash proceeded the bullet, it hammered home. The Chinaman’s sense soared as he extended his mind viewing his attacker. Lying flat on a distant hanger, reloading and sighting down a powerful scope.The Chinaman realised his predicament. No cover, outlined against the burning flames of the plane, a well prepared ambush.Scant seconds before another bullet struck home. The mother could hold back oceans with her will, a trick he had never mastered, he could not even protect himself.He hurled his will out across the airport. If this failed the bullet would strike home, his will would be absent to heal his flesh. A risky manoeuvre. The sniper tightened his finger on the trigger, squeezing. He focused his will. A single point, solid a fraction of an inch from the bullet. The charge ignited hurling the bullet towards the obstruction, but will is harder then steel and hot gas and metal shards erupted out burning the sniper. The Chinaman returned to his body, his will seeking others that would harm him.There but not to harm, to watch and report. The mind behind this would probe for weakness, each attack costing him time. Time he could not afford. The Chinaman’s fist tightened. He would never be free of this man, till he was brought low. It could no longer wait, he must be dealt with. It would save him time, yes, save him time. As the red rage built, yes this mans death would be done to save time. And time alone.Back to Table of ContentsChapter 16Of Bulls and BeetlesBy Stuart Stansfield?“Line’s down.” ?McPherson statement was simple and to the point as he replaced the telephone earpiece. “You’ll have to contact the embassy some other way. Not easy with riots bloody everywhere… you damn idiots are lucky to be alive! Worse than the bloody twenties by all accounts!” The old intelligence man known to his friends and foes alike as ‘Bimbashi’ fixed his angry stare on his guests, but none could hold his gaze. Even if they wished to defend themselves the blame their host had seemed to lay solely on their shoulders, they were in no physical, mental or emotional condition to do so.?Morris, Taylor, Thatcher and D’Huberres sat, shocked, bloodied and bruised, He wouldn’t allow them outside while half of Cairo was baying for their blood, so they remained docile in McPherson’s drawing room, a glass of malt in one hand, a foul Turkish Latakia cigarette in the other. Thurlwell was the only absentee, curled up on McPherson’s bed; a knife wound being treated by a kindly servant. The otherwise silent atmosphere was broken only by the soft swishing of a ceiling fan operated by a servant, and a slight gurgle which emanated from McPherson’s pipe, as he strode irritatedly across his domain.?“Seemingly, this Apep has it in for us. Could be the contact we roughed up…” Taylor half mumbled, as if to appease the old firebrand pacing the room before him.?“Doubt it,” McPherson interjected forcibly, with some annoyance. “No, it’ll be something else. I’ll get my people on it. Not that it’ll be easy on a night like this…” His words were clipped, their utterance rapid. Emotionless sentences rapped off in apparent unison with his hurried pacing, back and forth across the room. Old McPherson paused in his remonstrations for a moment, and allowed himself a quick peek between the curtained drapes, which covered the glass doors closing off the drawing room from the veranda. The glow of a burning car illuminated the early evening cityscape before him, the bright cornflower blue already hazing into a deep azure. Distants shouts of anger could heard above the crackle of flames, and the dull shriek of strained metal?“It’ll be your dismembered limbs floating in the Nile tomorrow if you go out in this,” he half muttered, and turned back to his guests. The city he loved was falling to pieces around him. Apep’s henchmen roamed wantonly, and he was powerless to do anything about it. But the anger was not as simply directed as it seemed, for Morris could read his old friend’s gaze well. Joseph McPherson was demonstrably angry at the way his guests and their affairs may have enflamed the situation, yes, but it was not wholly true to his real feelings. If anything it was a simple outlet for only his surface emotions. His real passions ran deeper. Fear for his countless friends in the city, pain at their loss, fury at the triumph of brutality over law. Anger at his life’s work withering before his very eyes, as Apep strode unmolested across the city; a futile fury conveniently focused on those around him.?“I’m sorry, Joe,” Morris said quietly.?McPherson looked at his friend steadily. He seemed genuinely touched for what seemed an infinitesimally small moment, a gesture Morris picked out clearly before ‘Bimbashi’ laconically shrugged off the apology in front of Thatcher and the Frenchman. He coughed, and turned back towards the veranda. His voice had lost a touch of its steeliness as he said, “Well, you can’t leave now, that’s for certain. So instead of moping around here drinking my whisky, why don’t you do something useful?”?His guest raised their eyebrows. Morris seemed to catch the change in mood, and leaned forward purposefully in his chair, filling his pipe with vigour. Some of the tiredness and despair evidenced just a moment before had been shaken off; Morris’ wits and intellect were returning. Taylor saw the change, and made as if to speak.?“So, sergeant, what have you got so far?” McPherson asked gruffly, pre-empting Taylor’s comment.?Taylor explained all that had happened since Morris saw McPherson last, the real nature of Outhwaite, the strange insects, the mutilated corpses, the capture of D’Huberres (a stern look from McPherson to the Frenchman at this), the loss of Kenton and the strange yet deadly woman, the attack of the Arabs and the bloody slaughter of the Ministry men. He held nothing back, even though D’Huberres sat across from him. Although the Frenchman was a murderer (though they had not explained to McPherson that he was implicated in the murder of Sir Archibald), he had been as much an unwilling pawn in many events as they had been. Their flight had forged a bond between them, slight, and hated, but there all the same. When this was over, there would be scores to settle, but until then, an enemy’s enemy was your friend…?As he finished, Taylor noticed that the old intelligence hand was looking at the wax-covered dispatch case holding the papers they found, which lay on a nearby coffee table. “Have you had a look at these, gentlemen?” Bimbashi inquired. “They look interesting…”?“Not really,” Morris spoke up, having finished filling his pipe. “A brief overview at the scene, that’s all… not really time,” Morris intimated, somewhat wearily. He’d risen to stretch his weary legs, to shake some life into them, and now stood by the curtained entrance to the veranda. A slight opening in the heavy drapes his only view of the outside world. “I noticed some terms of note, a drawing of the pendent, a reference to a box… but that was all at the time. Taylor.”?Through a simple word and an understanding born of years of partnership, Taylor picked up the papers. With a careful eye, keen to prevent a reprimand from his boss in front of the drawing room audience, he ran over the inventory of the yellowed papers. “Half-a-dozen pages, crabbed tight-typed script. Heavily annotated, though the hand is pretty damn illegible. Then this… well, this is a bit weird…”?“Well, what is it?” McPherson asked, his curiosity piqued.?“I don’t know sir… looks all bloody Greek to me…” Taylor laughed, and held a paper up to a nearby wall-light, as if to get a better look.“Pay attention, Taylor!” Morris snapped harshly, and spun from the curtains to face his sergeant. “Now is not the time to indulge in any bloody stupid apotheosis of your ignorance…”?Taylor shot a glance briefly at his mentor, hurt by the sudden vicious barb, before dropping his embarrassed gaze to the ground. He held the papers limply for a moment, and in that second D’Huberres snatched them quickly. The Sergeant made no attempt to resist.?A quiet Gallic voice broke the silence. “Inspector,” D’Huberres said through a crooked smile, “he is telling the truth. It is Greek.” The Frenchman winced as he extended the sheet of paper towards the approaching Morris. The inspector glanced at the sheet of paper thrust before him. His eyes blurred the characters slightly, a function of weariness compounded by the soft light of gas lamps burning in the drawing room. Finally the letters came into focus, and Morris made a sudden, involuntary intake of breath as he finally made out the Greek characters at the top of the page.“Critias…” McPherson’s eyes lit up, as Morris spoke the name aloud. “Indeed…”?“Who the hell was Critias?” Taylor asked, confused. Thatcher had seemed to recognise the name also, but he and D’Huberres stared on with incomprehension.?“If you deigned to raise your education and reading hazards above the Evening Standard every once in a while, Taylor, you might know,” Morris muttered. Although his words were harsh, they had lost the vehemence of before. ?“He was a chap in Plato,” Thatcher added. “He appears in several books, notably the Timaeus and Critias. Plato used characters like him to tell a certain particular story, to expound in a philosophical setting on some real-life moral dilemma.” His words were slow, and carefully enunciated, so that D’Huberres and Taylor, who had probably never heard of Plato till that moment, might follow.?“You mean like an allogry-type thing?” Taylor asked, some recognition in his voice. D’Huberres remained guarded. He had seen this set of papers only once before, a brief glimpse in that Zanzibar café. It all seemed so long ago now…?McPherson smiled. “An ‘allegory’, sergeant. Yes, indeed; Plato used Critias to expound upon his allegorical Athens so to speak, a nation brought low by corruption and arrogance. An island nation destroyed in a natural cataclysm of unheard proportions… a mighty civilisation swallowed by the sea…”?Taylor seemed slightly perplexed “You don’t mean…” he murmured as he turned towards his erstwhile inspector, a clear but confused question in his eyes.?Morris nodded imperceptibly as he held his sergeant’s gaze. His words were clear but deadly quiet, little more than a whisper.?“Yes, sergeant, he means Atlantis.”?McPherson had been animated for some while now. His previous ill mood had vanished, replaced with an almost boyish eagerness to solve the problem at hand, or delve into this curious branch of the investigation that had presented itself. Outside, the sky grew darker as the sun edged its way towards the horizon. The riots that had followed Apep’s call to arms, clashes arising to cover his private war against the Westerners and the Chinaman, or out of a simple native desire for butchery against the rich westerners oblivious to their hovel-like existence, were falling. ?McPherson had already sent several scouts out into the city, men from his now dwindled chain of agents who spread far and wide amongst the narrow Cairene streets. One had returned already; Apep’s operatives had not followed them here. In a stroke of luck, Morris and his comrades had evaded their pursuers in the end, and After the exertions of the day, the warm, still evening air had sated themsleves. Soon it would be safe to leave, before the shadows of nights once again covered all, the cool evening restored and the knives could shine brightly under the moon.?Morris stared blankly into space for a moment, his eyes blurring the scene before him. They were still perched in McPherson’s drawing room. Still the drapes screened them from the outside world, but at least the old man had allowed them a clean change of clothes. Ill-fitted the fresh linen may have been, but it was wonderfully cool against his hot skin. He thought of Kenton, the American whom they had been forced to leave in the clutches of that mysterious yet deadly woman, whilst they had bolted like rabbits to their burrow. He had never felt much for the American, but was now concerned for his safety. A raise in anticipation in McPherson’s voice snapped him from his reverie…?“Hold on… ah, here we go… Spence. Lewis Spence.” Old Bimbashi casually threw the copy of ‘History of Atlantis’ on top of a stack of books, which were piled precariously atop a dark varnished wicker side table. The basketwork creaked under the extra weight.?It was quite a pile of pulp esoterica which endangered the wickerwork’s structural integrity. Sir James Frazer’s own 1922 abridged version of the ‘The Golden Bough’ rested on top of an old folio edition of Negris’ 1905 ‘La question de l’Atlantis de Platon’, one of the finest present translations of Plato.?Morris looked at his old friend, with an element of slight incomprehension.?McPherson smiled, a slight hint of embarrassment toying on his expression. “I’m too old to bash heads, so I read this nonsense, okay? I did read philosophy at Corpus Christi, after all! Atlantis always fascinated me, even then…”“…And that which is now only a name and was then, something more than a name, orichalcum, was dug out of the earth…”?Morris snapped awake quickly; he checked his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since he last remembered checking the time, since McPherson had taken to his demented library work. He cursed himself for falling asleep at this crucial juncture, but a quick look at his companions, showed their total obliviousness to his supposed misdemeanour. McPherson, Taylor, Thatcher, and even the dour D’Huberrres, were flicking through heavy hard-backed tomes, easing pages back and forth in their search for some vague term of reference, a search driven by a curious mantle of giddy enthusiasm which had enveloped old Joseph McPherson.?The voice that had awoken him had been D’Huberres, but the words were those of Plato’s Critias. Taylor replied with surprising eagerness to D’Huberres’ utterance. Christ, mused Morris with a raised eyebrow, he’s actually getting into this…?“Orichalcum again…” Taylor muttered, intrigued, “what is it?”?“Mountain copper, to use a literal translation,” Thatcher answered. His words were somewhat dispassionate; Morris noted that he was obviously less engrossed than the others in their present endeavour. “It’s Latin… comes from the Greek oreikhalkon. Probably brass…”?His last sentence was cut short by a stinging, disparaging look from old Mcpherson. “Well, if our evidence as to the nature of the pendent is to be believed, it is not mere brass, Mr. Thatcher,” the old man scolded; a vague nod from D’Huberres seemed to fortify his words.?“So gentlemen,” McPherson spoke, but largely for the benefit of the newly awoken Morris (he at least had noticed his friend’s slumber), “what do we have?”?Taylor rose to the challenge, “The pieces are clicking together. Orichalcum, a metal supposedly used by the Atlanteans is mentioned in the papers we found, and supposedly the pendant, and parts of this mysterious box, are made out of it…” ?At this the Frenchman gave a perfunctory nod. D’Huberres had quietly followed all that his ‘captors’ had found, and even helped translate the Plato to the decidedly non-Francophone Taylor. They were letting their guard slip, Alphonse mused, beginning to ingratiate him into their circle. Even Thatcher was keeping less of an eye on him, his gun resting idly on the table beside him, no longer trained on his heart. Inwardly, D’Huberres smiled; he wasn’t going to stop them… not whilst he was finding this decidedly interesting as well…?“And bulls… bulls are important too, sergeant,” McPherson added. “Bulls were sacred to Poseidon, the patron god of Atlantis, and sacrificed to him. They were allowed to roam freely at times on Atlantis as the sacred cows do in Hindustan. Is it purely coincidental that we find symbols of bulls associated with orichalcum… like on the pendant? Or, perhaps”?Morris chuckled quietly, “Aren’t you taking this a bit far, gentlemen?”?“I mean, come on sir, the bull god Hap, and the bull cults of Orion-Apis or Serapis in Egypt; Poseidon’s Cretan Bull, the Minoans bull veneration and symbolism, the bull aspects of Dionysus; the Celtic Brown Bull of Quelgny; the Cult of Mithras; the great Bull form of the Hindu sky god Indra…” Taylor reeled off a sequence of mythical entities.?“Alright, Taylor, your cap and gown are in the post…”?“Not to mention its importance as a corn-spirit and life-giver in Prussia and the rest of Germany,” McPherson added. “Surely the bull was worshipped for a reason… and why so frequently in this aspect as a ‘sky god’? Hardly what one may associated with a horned bovine at all…”?Thatcher snorted derisively. “Bulls and cows! Damn it, man… superstitious people make gods out of everything! You have to understand the human side of this… they were pastoral societies, of course the bloody cow took on a role…”?“That is the sensible explanation, Mr. Thatcher,” McPherson said quietly. “But liquefied bodies and insects morphing through wood belie sense… As I begin to explore this case, I see less and less sensible science and allegory, and more reality buried in myth. ?“Perhaps… perhaps…” Thatcher nodded, wearily, “but you seem to be implying…”?“That all modern civilisations are nought but the scions of Atlantis? Many think so… why else would the bull be so prevalent in this certain guise in myth?” He raised his hand to stop Thatcher’s comment. “It is a rhetorical question, I do not necessarily argue its anthropological reality… your point is entirely reasonable.”?“But what about in the Americas? Surely if your Atlantis lay in the middle of the Atlantic, such beliefs would travel there?” Thatcher asked, hoping to corner the old man.?MacPherson shook his head. “I didn’t say it was in the Atlantic… I don’t argue that Plato is entirely correct… but that buried in his classical allusions there may be a hidden reality… Why was there a sudden surge in culture and technology several thousand years ago, focused on Egypt and the ‘fertile crescent’, if the Egyptologists and Sumeriologists are to be believed? What caused it? What lay behind this similarity of religious symbolism?”?“But what about the beetles… the strange insects that we have encountered?” Morris asked, in the process of refilling his pipe. He stopped his actions for a moment. In a disquieting onset of déjà vu he half remembered a dream he must have had whilst he was sleeping a scant few minutes ago, where a peaceful smoke had been disturbed by a horde of milling creatures melding into and out of his pipe bowl, roasting with some foul psychic scream in the burning tobacco…?McPherson was genuinely thoughtful. “Beetles and other insects have never played much of an important role in myth and legend,” he said slowly, as if directly considering the idea, “well, not as important as other animals. They are more of an unknown quantity. The scarab, however, is different.”?“The Scarab is of great import to the Egyptians… it is a symbol of rebirth. Within the dung beetle’s life cycle they saw mirrored their own daily cosmic progression. Once they had removed the organs from a dead Pharaoh, a scarab took the place of the heart in the mummified corpse, so as to ensure the progress to the afterlife. The Egyptian god Khepri was often depicted as a giant scarab, or Scarab headed man…” Taylor enthused gladly, taking the whole process to heart.?“The beetles have seemed to follow us everywhere…” Morris mused, failing to see any direct relevance at the moment of Taylor’s newfound Egyptological knowledge.?“Exactly!” McPherson exclaimed, as if remembering something he had been attempting to recall for the last minute. “The beetle is linked in homeopathic magic with the idea of observation, scrying and control, the concept of a link via the beetle to some person. In the old days if some Arab had a runaway slave, he would draw a magic circle and place a nail in the centre,” McPherson smiled, and placed a pin in the table by way of example. “He would then take a beetle, and attach it to the nail by a piece of thread. As the beetle wandered,” he illustrated this with a circular motion of his finger around the pin,“the thread would wrap ever tighter around the nail, drawing him ever inward. This was thought to draw the slave back to his master. Perhaps there is some real reason the Arabs used this ritual… some ancient example?”?“Wait a minute… are you saying this is magic, English?” D’Huberres asked, a hint of concern in his voice.?The old man shook his head. “Not necessarily magic, no; what is myth but a catalogue of earnest attempts by humanity to understand that which they cannot directly explain, but see in their everyday lives before them? Behind the allegory, the myth, often lies real truth; not all is pure superstitious symbolism. Buried racial memories… how many civilisations possess the myth of the Great Flood? Of a few survivors who left their drowned lands to seed the races of the world?” McPherson wet his throat his a sip of whisky, before continuing:? “I do not imply magic or religion, but real science enshrouded in primitive misunderstanding… Real science not necessarily of this world…”?“Now hold on, Joe…” Morris started.?“Come now, Morris old friend. These bodies you saw. Surely you have seen nothing like this before? What man can hold such power? You have spoken of these strange creatures, which can travel through wood, leaving not a mark. Did you not hear the words of Taylor? Khepri, the Scarab god he spoke of rode across primordial chaos in a ‘boat’… what is that an allusion to? The primordial waters… is that the sea… or the universe?”?No one had any answer.?“Are you not familiar with the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead?” McPherson asked…?"I have flown up like the primeval ones, I have become Khepri. . ."?A chill spread across the room for a second. The doors to the veranda had forced themselves open, and a cool evening breeze brushed the occupant’s exposed forearms, raising hairs and blanching the skin. The drapes flapped with the influx of air, surprisingly strong on such a mild evening. McPherson smiled, and read a single passage from a particularly old tome he had been perusing:?“Hap… or Apis to the Greeks… the bull-god, was a special deity, with a special duty. For he was the messenger of the gods, carrying their words and will to their minions on Earth, and escorting select humans as they made their way to the lands of the Gods in the afterlife.”?For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then Taylor asked the question, “Where did the gods live?”?“The realm of the gods? The afterlife of the Egyptians was not on some ethereal plane, nor some abstract concept,” McPherson said quietly, “no it was very real. Very tangible; discernible with the naked eye.” A conspiratorial grin spread across his aged face. “Come, I’ll show you.”?With a new vigour, the old man walked to the end of the room, and with a dramatic gesture wrenched aside the flapping curtains, then cast fully open the twitching doors. Led by McPherson, the party walked out onto the veranda into the already cool Cairene evening. The sky was a deep blue now, and one could just begin to make out the faint twinkling of the stars in the sky. McPherson smiled. ?“There, gentlemen. There is the realm of the gods.”?And he pointed to the stars.?Back to Table of ContentsChapter 17An Unholy AllianceBy Caroline CormackWhen people look down at me they see a beggar, all wrapped up in rags. I keep my face hidden but nobody really sees me anyway. A beggar, they think and look away in disgust. That is how it must be for now. I have to hide. I’m not ready for the final moment yet. However much I hate hiding, however much I want to wreak my vengeance on this city, on this world, I must hide and wait and feed.Morris stood on McPherson’s veranda, careful to keep his face in the shadows, and gently puffed on his pipe. The others were all inside reading Bimbashi’s books on Atlantis and leafing through the Wilmarth manuscript. Morris wasn’t in the mood to join in. He’d known Bimbashi McPherson for a long time and had heard all his Atlantis theories before. Whether this manuscript, the pendant, the box, all the deaths, were finally going to prove any of them, well only time would tell. And not that much time. Morris could feel it, the same way he could feel when he was closing in on a criminal. The end game was coming. Soon, one way or another, all this would be over.He’d be glad of that. Glad to see London again. Glad to see his old colleagues. Glad to be back at his mind numbing desk job, although after this he thought he might do as his wife had been nagging all this time and take a posting out of London, go be a rural copper chasing poachers until retirement. Which wasn’t all that long away now. All this was predicated on there being a London, an England to go back to. From what little they could glean from the Wilmarth manuscript, that was no longer the certainty it always had been.Whatever it was, Atlantean or other, it was coming soon...Apep sat amongst silk cushions, eating a last piece of Umm Ali. The sweet milky dessert had worked its usual magic, enabling him to clear his head of personal concerns and to focus on what needed to be done. He brushed pastry crumbs off his front and ate a few stray pistachios and sultanas. He looked through the smoke at Saleem, a man most knew to be simply the qahwagi of his coffee shop, in reality the most trusted of his trusted men. The man who saw the plans as well as merely hearing the orders. Saleem had stood by his side through many years, both poor and rich and had no doubt been offered many riches and prizes beyond measure to betray his master. These offers had never been accepted.“Call off the riots.” Apep said eventually. “Cairo has felt the measure of my rage, few will risk turning against me now. Now I need to concentrate my energies against this stranger. Tell everyone to get some rest and make sure they’re ready to go at a moment’s notice. They should use this time to fix their weapons and mend their defences.“That means you too Saleem. I’m closing the Qawha.”Saleem never questioned his master’s orders but could not help a look of astonishment crossing his face. Closing the Qawha? As the riots died down, Katrina slipped out of the hotel where the Duchess was staying and crossed Cairo to where Kenton was imprisoned, a basement in an abandoned building, utterly anonymous in an anonymous part of town.Kenton was looking close to the end of his will. The riots had kept her from coming over to check on him and he had obviously run out of water some hours previously and she knew he hadn’t eaten in over twenty four hours and even then she wasn’t exactly feeding him three square meals a day. Although the basement was cooler than the outside air, still to be trapped without water or food, especially an American, Katrina almost felt sorry for him.After checking that his wrists were still securely tied - although he appeared to lack the strength to fight back, Katrina wasn’t going to underestimate another man - she knelt close to him and poured a little water into his mouth. After he had swallowed, a grimace as his dry throat worked, she gave him a little more to drink.“I need to get your strength up. You need to be able to walk across the town. There’s been a change of plan.” she told him, continuing to slowly give him water to drink.Morris, Taylor and the Ministry men also took advantage of the lull in the violence and prepared to leave McPherson’s house and head back to their hotel in the policemen’s case and the Embassy for the two government men. Thurlwell’s knife wound had been thoroughly cleaned and well bandaged. Although still very painful and causing him to limp, it was, even he agreed, as good as if he’d been in hospital in London. The only thing for it now was rest and they all knew there’d be none of that coming soon.D’Huberres they would leave under the watchful eye of Bimbashi McPherson. After Thatcher had rather peremptorily instructed McPherson that D’Huberres wasn’t to leave the house and wasn’t to be trusted, Morris took the opportunity of his goodbyes to modify Thatcher’s instructions somewhat.“You know what’s what better than he does.” Morris said to his old friend when they were alone in McPherson’s kitchen, ostensibly tidying the food stuff away. “Thatcher’s a good man, but you know the Ministry, no shades of grey.”“And D’Huberres is a shade of grey?”Morris listened to check that the others were all still in the living room and lowered his voice anyway. “You didn’t hear this from me, but he’s the one that shot Sir Archibald Wakely.”“Really?” McPherson smiled, “And you want me to keep him under house arrest? I’d rather give him a shot of my best whiskey and the keys to the city!”“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that.” Morris said dryly. “What you or I thought of Wakely aside, he was a British citizen and therefore officially I should be arresting D’Huberres for murder, but times are strange and last night I know we wouldn’t all have made it if it weren’t for him. As far as I understand it his employer was killed last night so he’s currently a bit of a loose cannon. Could go either way. I’d like him to go ours if you see what I’m saying.”“I’ll see what I can do Morris. Leave it to me.”“Thanks Joe.” They left the kitchen and walked back through to the dining room. “We’ll be off now. Come along Sergeant.”I hear footsteps. I crouch back into the rubbish, hiding out of sight. As the footsteps come closer I realise it is just one man. I risk a look out. A European! Perfect! I reach out as if to beg for loose change. The man reaches into his pocket for a few small coins, his face showing a revulsion that makes me long to rise up and reveal my true self. The European reaches down to drop the coins in my outstretched hand. I grab him by the wrist and begin to feed. The European cries out he is well outside of the tourist areas so there are no policemen around. Soon he no longer has the strength to scream. I take it all. I can feel his life essence flowing through my veins, buying me more time, staying the day when my will ends. Each new kill brings me a little less strength than the one before. Time is against me, but for now I must wait. To rush would be to fail. I need to acclimatise to the new freedom away from the Mother. To get used to the rhythms of my own body again and to consider the revenge I will have over the man who would dare to stop me.I reach down into the corner to retrieve the box and the key and consider my next move. First hide the sack of liquid that was the European man. That done I reach inwards, considering my heart and nerves, the strength in my muscles and bones. I reach outwards, considering the rhythms of the city. I sense that my enemy is regrouping, readying himself for the battle to come. And I know I must do the same.I need to feed slowly to avoid the disasters of before. To digest each new person’s essence as it were, before taking on another one. But with each I shall be a little stronger.I must find a place where people will pass unsuspectingly and where others will not notice the missing people.The Duchess stood at the window of her hotel living room, watching the street below, waiting for Katrina to return with Kenton. She wondered how she was going to persuade him that they were on the same side. Having kept him locked up in a basement, she suspected that he would not be feeling particularly favourably towards her right now.She could claim that they had hidden him away for his own protection... No, he’d never buy that and anyway, it would be an affront to his masculinity. For once, she thought, honesty might actually be the best policy. Not total honesty of course, just enough to be convincing... Ah! There they were!“Henry? I see them. Go down to the lobby and see that the hotel staff don’t make a fuss would you? I very much doubt Kenton is dressed appropriately.”Once Kenton and Katrina had arrived at the Duchess’s suite she sent Kenton off with Henry to get cleaned up and fed. She hoped it might make him more amenable to helping her.One hot bath and large breakfast later, Kenton joined the Duchess and Katrina in the living room.“Why am I here?” he asked.“Because you no longer have the pendant and I think you could be useful to me in a different fashion. I would like you to talk to the Police Inspector for me.” If he wanted to get straight down to business, the Duchess thought, she would oblige.“Pardon me?”“You no longer have the pendant.” she repeated. “I do not know where you had hidden it, but it is not there now. The Chinaman has both it and the box. And I should like you to help me get them back.”Kenton had gone pale. “The Chinaman?” he said slowly.His apparent shock worried the Duchess and she called for Henry to bring the good whiskey.Kenton knocked the shot back. It had the desired effect and brought the world back into focus. “I have to go.” he said, getting up.Katrina quickly rose and blocked his way.Kenton turned to the Duchess, his panic clearly showing on his face. “You don’t understand. I left the pendant with a good friend, my niece actually, if the Chinaman has it then she’s been hurt. I have to find out.”The Duchess considered the possibility that this was a lie and discarded it, his shock and panic looked genuine to her. She nodded. “Go.” she said. She would just have to find another way to contact Inspector Morris.Morris, Taylor and the two Ministry men made their way cautiously through the centre of Cairo. They didn’t know the town well enough to stick to back streets and their advantage was arguable at a time like this - less chance of being noticed, more chance of being swiftly knifed without so much as a by-your-leave if you were seen.Back in their hotel Morris and Taylor went off to their separate rooms for a much needed wash and shave.Feeling much more civilised and like he’d had a good nap even though he hadn’t slept in over a day, Morris headed down to the hotel’s dining room. He ordered some tea and toast from one of the waiters and joined Taylor at a table sensibly well away from the windows. Taylor was reading a letter.“What’s that Sergeant?” Morris asked.“Letter from Sergeant Goodwood sir. You remember? The local bobby from New Brighton.”“Ah yes. A reliable chap you said. Does he have anything interesting to say?”“I should say so.” Taylor replied vehemently, “Strange doings in New Brighton since we left. Ships underground, more of those weird beetles we saw, some kind of big alien woman thing. And a visit from Sir Bernard Spilsbury himself. Honestly everything always seems to happen when I’m not there.” Taylor grumbled.Morris snorted. “The events of the past twenty four hours haven’t been enough for you eh? Pass the letter over when your done. Sounds like it’s all linked in with what’s going on here.”On leaving the Duchess’ hotel suite, Kenton ran through the streets to Outhwaite’s flat where he had last seen Anadil. How could he have been so stupid as to leave the pendant with her? He should have known they’d be able to find it! The mystical forces at work here meant that the Chinaman could probably sense where the pendant was being hidden. He dreaded what he would find there. The chances that the Chinaman had asked for the pendant and, upon being given it, had said thank you and left were slim. The best result for Anadil would have been a swift death. From what Kenton had heard of the Chinaman, he wasn’t above a little torture just to pass the time. There was no way this could have ended well, he could only hope it had ended quickly.Kenton pushed through the broken door to Outhwaite’s place, looked briefly at the horror within, turned around and ran out again to vomit outside in the street. Long after he had thrown up the entire contents of his stomach he continued to heave, the horrific tableau caught on his retinas, seeing it when he blinked, seeing it when his eyes were open, the image overlaid on the Cairo street scene in front of him.“So Monsieur D’Huberres, can I get you anything? I would like your stay here to be as comfortable as possible.”D’Huberres couldn’t tell if the old Scot was being serious. Probably not, he decided, the British rarely were in his experience. So difficult, conversing with a Briton, always having to read between the lines, they never came right out and said anything. Infuriating! He decided playing along would be the best option.“Well, you could get rid of these guards and get me a plane out of Egypt.”“Sorry. No can do son. Morris told me to keep you here and I make it a practice never to get on Morris’s bad side.”“He’s that fearsome is he?” D’Huberres said sceptically.“He can be, laddie, he can be. Another cigarette?”The two men lit their cigarettes and sat back, smoking in silence for a while.“So what are you going to do now?” McPherson asked, “Assuming Morris lets you go I mean. After all your employer is dead now isn’t he? I hope you got paid in advance.”“Always. You don’t think I trust the people I work for do you? And now? I don’t know. Wait for my opportunity and then run I expect. Morris won’t shoot me in the street, something that I wouldn’t say for those Ministry boys, but he will arrest me when this is all over. Assuming we’re both still alive of course.”“Until then?”“Up to Morris and Thatcher I would think. I’ll keep quiet, try not to get killed.”“You could go to work for me.”D’Huberres sat forward.“You have work?” then he sat back again laughing derisively, “And what would you pay me with? Your pension cheque?”“I have something more valuable than money.”D’Huberres scoffed, “What is that then?”“Influence. You do a job for me. I’ll help you get past Morris and Thatcher. Assuming you’re still alive of course.”“Of course.”I hate them all. Their banal evilness tastes sickly sweet, like fruit turned to rot. I am brought to this, feeding off the poor, the venal: thieves, prostitutes, beggars, cripples. Occasionally I gorge on a lost tourist, who taste no better but provide greater sustenance. I see it in their faces, their lips curled in disgust at the filthy beggar shuffling towards them. I will kill them all. I have to maintain my disguise for the moment for I am not yet strong enough to reveal my true face. But I get stronger with each body I kill.Kenton sat outside Outhwaite’s home and cried. He hadn’t cried since being a small boy but now he couldn’t help it. He had spent the past few days being alternately starved and tortured, locked up in a basement while the beautiful little girl he had saved all those years ago was lying, rotting on the floor of her home, her neck twisted, her body swollen and flat as if everything inside had turned to liquid.Despair engulfed him. He was exhausted, he wasn’t sure he could find the strength to do what had to come next and so, for now, he sat in the street and cried, remembering the eight-year-old girl he had known.The Duchess was at the dining table eating breakfast and considering this new turn of events. Katrina was fast asleep in the spare bedroom having finally agreed to go get some rest. Initially she had resisted, insisting she was fine, that there were things to be done, but the Duchess and Henry had persisted and eventually prevailed.The Duchess was still sure that she needed to be in contact with the Inspector somehow. Although the current problem was the Chinaman she knew all would not be finished when he was defeated. Unless they were all dead of course. Kenton had seemed the perfect go-between, trusted by the Ministry men and the policemen. But she had had to let him go. More than simple compassion for the bereaved, she knew that he would have run off at the first opportunity anyway so why waste time.Katrina couldn’t be used, Morris knew her by sight. There wasn’t time to get any of her other girls to Cairo. A solution occurred to her. It would mean risking everything. Was this worth it? She thought of her father and her husband. Yes it was worth it.“Henry? Contact the Embassy would you? I want to have a dinner dance. Tonight. And make sure Mr Thatcher and Inspector Morris are invited.”Kenton sat, head in hands, outside Outhwaite’s front door, his emotions deadened now. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up. He had things to do. First he had to protect Anadil’s body from further desecration.He stood and watched the fire burn for a while, making sure that the body would burn fully. He had wrapped her body, reduced to a sack of liquid, in sheets from the bedroom. Making a pile of her and Outhwaite’s books and other flammable possessions he had lit the pyre and prayed for Anadil.He had to go and see Apep. Tell him what had happened to his only niece, his only relative in this world. With luck Apep would kill him. Death, he felt, was the only way he would rid his mind of the memory of this morning. The first sight horrible enough but picking up her liquefied body, feeling the liquid inside move as gravity took it. But mostly just seeing the eight-year-old he remembered and the twenty year old he had met only a few days ago. So beautiful, so full of life.But that morning had one final horror in store for Kenton as Anadil’s body exploded on the fire like an unpricked sausage. There should be dignity in death, Kenton thought as he ran from the scene. This had been far more than a murder. Either the Chinaman had done all this deliberately knowing that those who loved Andy would have to deal with the horror that he had left, or he just didn’t care. Kenton wasn’t sure which was worse.Catching a horse drawn carriage, Kenton made his way over to Apep’s Qawha. He was dropped off outside the end of the alleyway and made his own way to the entrance where he was surprised to find the door locked. The Qawha closed? Did Apep already know of Andy’s death? Was Apep also dead? No, it couldn’t be.He banged on the door. The door opened and he was yanked into the dark interior and thrown to the floor. Fists and boots reined down and questions were yelled that he didn’t have a chance to answer. Who was he? Why was he here? Who did he work for? Mostly the men just yelled about his being a foreigner and kicked and beat him, venting the anger that had been generated and then forcibly repressed during the riots and their sudden end.Kenton hadn’t the strength or the will to fight back. Consumed with sadness over Anadil’s death and guilt over his part in it and the death of the maid back in England whose name he couldn’t even remember... How could he have forgotten her name? He was responsible for her death and, though he hadn’t really known her long, surely he should be able to remember her... Charlotte! That was it. Strangely he felt better for having been able to remember her name. He couldn’t bring these women back. Couldn’t reverse the actions that had caused their deaths, all he could do was remember them.“What is this? What’s going on here?” The men stopping kicking. Kenton didn’t move for a moment and then slowly stood. Saleem stood before him, though Kenton could barely see him, his left eye, only recently begun to heal from it’s previous injuries, completely swollen shut, the right nearly so. His nose and face were bleeding from a variety of places, it hurt to breathe so he’d probably cracked a rib or two, but other than that Kenton thought his injuries were on the surface only. He would endure a lot of pain for the next few weeks but it would pass. He would never get his good looks back though, he thought with an inward smile.“Kenton.” Saleem’s voice was cold. “You are not welcome here. The Qawha is shut.”“I need to see Apep. It’s about Anadil.”“Wait here.”Kenton was led into the back chamber where Apep was waiting for him. The Egyptian crimelord looked haggard despite his great weight. And Kenton knew then that Apep already knew of his niece’s death. How could he not? Nothing happened in Cairo without Apep knowing about it. So it had been for years, why would it be any different now?“I’m sorry Apep.”Apep nodded. “It was the Chinaman?” he asked.“Yes. So I’m told.”“You took care of her body?”“As well as I could.”“Good.”The two men sat in silence. Kenton watched the fat Egyptian thinking him to be remembering his niece. Then Kenton began to feel the room shake and he knew that Apep wasn’t just mourning. Kenton felt the hairs on his arms stand up on end. He could feel the power emanating from Apep, the anger radiating outward. Kenton didn’t dare move as Apep began to scream, a primal yell of grief and rage, the noise building with intensity as did the heat in the room. Suddenly all the wall hanging were ablaze. And then just as suddenly the noise, the heat, the fire stopped. Apep took a deep breath, controlling his emotions and looked at Kenton.“I will destroy him if I have to take all of Cairo with me.”Morris and Taylor were sat in the main drawing room of their hotel waiting for Thatcher and Thurlwell to arrive from the Embassy. Morris had read Sergeant Goodwood’s letter and was pondering it’s implications. He felt frustrated at being so far from England, unable to directly talk to the witnesses. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, as a scientist, was sure to have some interesting observations to make on the whole affair.He was also, once again, wondering at their involvement. This was no longer a murder inquiry and hadn’t been for sometime. In fact as time went on he found himself suspecting more and more that solving any of the many murders that had occurred was of the lowest priority here. In many cases, they knew full well who had done the killing.But if they weren’t here to solve murders, why were they here? What was the case? One thing was for certain, there were forces at work here stronger than any of them had previously believed. And a lot older. Maybe Bimbashi’s theories about Atlantis had some merit after all.Thatcher and Thurlwell joined them at their table. Thatcher handed Morris a white envelope. “I hope you have formal wear with you. We’re going dancing.” he said.“What?” Morris opened the envelope and found the invitation to the Embassy dinner dance. “Oh this is ridiculous!” he spluttered, “We can’t go dancing. Not now!”“Special request of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, old man. Can’t say no. Not if you want a job to go back to when we’re done here.”Morris and Taylor shared an incredulous glance. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk? Here? Inviting Morris to a dinner dance? Should be interesting.I grow stronger. I can feeling the city breathing. With the box and the pendant nearby I grow from their power too. Using up some precious strength I reach out across the city again and am hit by a thunder wave of energy blasting out. The sheer force of it almost scares me. This is a power almost equal to my own. I must reassess my enemy. It is not time yet.Morris felt uncomfortable in his borrowed dinner suit. Of course he hadn’t dinner dress with him! He was a policeman and this was Cairo, too bloody hot for formal occasions. Too bloody hot for Thatcher’s condescension as well. Treating him like some copper from the sticks, like he had no manners or schooling at all. Morris’s blood was beginning to boil. He was all ready to storm out, to hell with polite society when the Duchess arrived on the arm of the British Ambassador.Thatcher took Morris over to the receiving line. God this was awkward and no mistake, Morris thought. She must know, surely, that we have a file on her at the Yard an inch thick. How does one behave in such circumstances. Morris couldn’t help but think that ‘You’re nicked’ would be frowned upon. Besides if it were as easy as that they’d have done it years ago. Proof was a bugger. Without it you could know something for a fact and be unable to do anything about it. It wasn’t like they could have brought her in and sweated a confession out of her, not a Duchess!Thatcher stepped forward to greet the Duchess and to introduce Morris, who was fairly sure he outranked the Ministry man and should have gone first. He tried to remember that he didn’t care about that sort of thing and concentrated on not handcuffing the Duchess or punching Thatcher in his obsequious mouth. He took the Duchess’s hand and bowed slightly.“Milady.”“Oh please, Inspector,” the Duchess said laughing, “I feel I have known you for years. Please, call me Margaret.”Morris almost choked. Thatcher looked about as astonished as Morris at the Duchess’s reaction.“How do you know the Inspector?” he asked. Morris watched the Duchess, wondering what on earth her answer would be.“The Inspector’s wife and I belong to the same bridge club.” the Duchess replied, as if there were nothing untoward about the association at all. “Oh these receiving lines are so tedious. Morris, would you do me the honour?”Morris, left in a position where he could hardly refuse, simply held out his arm and escorted the Duchess out on to the dance floor.“So, Margaret,” Morris said, carefully enunciating each syllable of the woman’s name, “Care to tell me what the hell is going on here?”“It’s simple. I need your help. Now remember Inspector,” The Duchess’ voice turned to steel, “You’re waltzing with the guest of honour at the British Embassy at the invitation of the British Ambassador, so do remember to smile.”Kenton’s wounds had been treated by two older women in Apep’s employ. Ex-prostitutes, having survived to the ripe old age of thirty they now looked after the other girls and served as nurses for Apep’s men. They his cleaned his wounds and bandaged his ribs tightly to give them some support. There wasn’t time for stitching the cuts in his face, assuming he lived long enough he was going to return to America unrecognisable from the clean cut, good looking man who had left. No bad thing, Kenton thought.Apep had sent him off while he planned the next move with Saleem. When Kenton returned to the back room, clean and dressed in fresh clothing they were eating dinner.“Ah, Kenton, sit, sit, have some food.” Apep seemed to have thrown off the grief and rage of earlier but Kenton could see it lurking behind the man’s eyes. Knowing Apep’s hatred of mixing business with food, Kenton said nothing during the meal except to agree that he felt a lot better after his bathing and that the women had done a very good job.The meal was a huge spread of fabulous food both sweet and savoury. Kenton ate as if he hadn’t eaten for days, which what with one thing and another he hadn’t really. All too soon the meal was over and Apep clapped to servants to clear the dishes. Down to business.“What do you know?”Kenton recounted all he knew, including the news from the Duchess that the Chinaman now had both box and pendant.“So the Duchess is involved is she?” Apep asked, speaking in his usual ponderous fashion, “What is her next move, do you know?”“She wanted me to talk to Inspector Morris for her so I assume she will find a different go-between.”“She wants to talk to the Inspector? Hmm.” Apep paused, considering. “I want you there Kenton. I need the Chinaman stopped and I don’t care who does it or why. It may take all of us to stop him. I’ll work my way, you help them do it their way. And keep me informed. Although they cannot know of my involvement, we must be allies in this”“Your will is mine.” Kenton replied.“Pint?” Thurlwell asked.“All right then, thanks.” Taylor and Thurlwell were in the Embassy bar downstairs from the dinner dance.“Cigarette?” Thurlwell offered after they had both taken a good long drink of their pints. Taylor took one and leaned forward for a light. “Well this is a fucking mess isn’t it?”“I’ll say.” Taylor agreed. “Do you have the slightest clue what’s going on?” he asked.“Some, not much more than you. The world’s about to end is the impression I get. Thatcher’s not big with the details. Just goes on about how the gate should never be opened and a terrible power being let loose on the world.”“McPherson reckons it’s got something to do with Atlantis.”“Atlantis? Isn’t that something from books? What the heck’s that got to do with some box in Egypt?” “Don’t ask me,” Taylor replied, taking a long draft of his beer. “He’s an old friend of the Inspector’s though, so he’s sound.”“Most of me doesn’t care what it’s all really about. Grey was a good friend of mine and I’d worked with Jock and Baker for years. One night in this God forsaken hole and all three of them are dead. I just want to kill a few Arabs in payback and then get the Hell back to England. This whole place can rot for all I care. Another drink?”“My round.” Taylor said getting up.The time is close now. I am growing ever stronger. I can feel the gate calling. The box and the pendant hum with power. I am no longer at risk from being subsumed by the personalities I consume. I am my own master now and I will have my way.“You need my help? What the... what makes you think I’ll be willing to give it?” Morris asked, trying to keep his face calm, pretending to the other guests that they were just making small talk, catching up on old times.“Because, for the moment my dear Inspector, we are on the same side. You don’t want the Ministry to have the box and pendant any more than I do.”“You’re being a bit presumptuous aren’t you? The Ministry doesn’t have either item. This Chinese fellow has them.”“And if he uses them then this whole discussion is moot because we’ll all be dead. So I am discussing what will happen if he doesn’t use them. May as well look on the bright side don’t you think Inspector?”“They’re that powerful?” Morris asked, as the waltz came to an end.“Oh yes Inspector, had you not realised? Not quite end of the world, but certainly the end of Cairo. Now, take my arm and walk me over to the Ambassador. And do remember to smile,” her voice hardened, “And say nothing.”“Mr and Mrs Ambassador, how lovely of you both to accede to my desire for a party. Have you met Inspector Morris from the Yard?”Meanwhile downstairs, Taylor and Thurlwell were getting steadily and determinedly drunk. Initially planning to stick to just one or two, the pair had abandoned this plan, in the face of, as they saw it, an almost certain death. The reaction from the unexpected and bloody run through Cairo, so much death, closer to than they’d ever experienced, had set in. “Wakely was an old tosser.” Thurlwell pronounced, sitting down with the latest pair of pints. “I’ve worked with him of three other cases and the fucker never spoke to me. Acted like I wasn’t there. Beneath his notice I was.”“I wish I had been.” Taylor replied, “He was always looking to make me and the boss look like idiots. Did you hear about the curry incident? I’m sure that bastard planned it.”“Nobody in the service liked him.” Thurlwell revealed, “He’d have been put out to pasture years ago but he was too bloody good at his job and knew where too many corpses were buried. Did you meet that Asian companion of his. Freaked me out, never saying anything like that. Do you think he really was mute?”“Who could tell? I wouldn’t trust Wakely if he told me A came before B in the alphabet.”Thurlwell offered Taylor another cigarette. They both took a deep draw and exhaled the smoke slowly.“Wankers.” they both said.Some polite chit-chat later and Morris and the Duchess walked over to one of the unoccupied tables to the side of the dance floor. Two waiters came past, one offering canapés, the other champagne. The Duchess took both, the Inspector stuck to the fluffy pastry and salmon concoctions and steered clear of the alcohol. He was clearly going to need his wits about him talking to the Duchess.“So,” Morris said resuming their previous conversation, “If we manage to stop this Chinaman?”“Then we’re still going to have the problem of what to do with the box and the pendant. We cannot trust the Ministry with them.”“Why not?”“Well, leaving aside the fact that I do not believe they should be trusted with so much as a toasting fork, and I think you agree with me on that, with Europe in the state that it is in at the moment, do you want to hand that kind of power to the government? Do you really think they will be able to keep from using it in a case of national security?”“But surely if they’re using it for good?” Morris asked.“It is too powerful. You cannot use it for ‘good’, you can only use it. And that can never happen.”“Now, wait a minute, if you’re not going to use it, what’s your interest in all this?”“Keeping it safe. Keeping it out of the Chinaman’s hands, keeping it out of the Ministry’s hands. Trying to ensure that no-one ever gets the chance to use it.”“But why? Where’s your profit?”“You may laugh, but I am doing this for King and Country my dear Inspector, for King and Country.”I walk through the streets carrying the box and the pendant. I can feel the power thrumming through my veins, better than life itself. I reach out to the city, sensing the people, their hopes and fears, their plans for the following day. A day most will never see. Oh well.It is time.Back to Table of Contents ................
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