Ring of Terror (14 page)

‘No,’ said Luke, who couldn’t help smiling at his remembrance of their last encounter. ‘I wouldn’t call him dangerous.’

On the following afternoon Luke and Joe were in Mr Passmore’s bedroom, occupying a window seat each. They were equipped with binoculars and had a list of names which they referred to from time to time as they tried to fit them to the members of the little group outside the club door.

Luke read out, ‘Indruk Spiridov. Bulky. Bent nose. Ben Levin. Fat, Jewish cast of countenance, sometimes wears earrings. It’d be easier if they’d stand still. Alexei Krustov. Tall and thin, quite young.’

‘Yes, I think I’ve spotted Krustov,’ said Joe. ‘The one leaning against the door post. Must be all of six foot three. Could judge his height better if he’d stand up straight.’

‘Don Katakin. Red hair, worn in ringlets. Red sideburns. Bad teeth. Ivan Luwinski. Tubby and robust. Good pair of shoulders on him – might have been a professional wrestler.

‘David Heilmann. Straggling grey beard and moustache. Ears stick out. Prominent nose. It’d be easier to be sure if he’d be kind enough to turn round. Tallish.’

As though to oblige them the man did turn round. Certainly he had a beard and moustache. They were so luxuriant that it was difficult to be certain about the other points.

‘Stanislas Grax. Fair-haired. Young. There’s two or three match that description.’

‘Not much doubt about the head boy,’ said Joe.

Molacoff Weil had stationed himself in front of the door. No one could get in without coming directly under his scrutiny. ‘What a horrible man. Like a rhinoceros on springs.’

Luke noted that Wensley had been right. All tickets were being collected and put on one side. When the last man had gone in the reception committee followed and the doors were shut behind them.

That’s that,’ said Joe. ‘Time for a cigarette.’

Luke was busy with his weekly report, a serial document to which he added supplements as occasion offered. They had watched the platform trio go in. Julian Spencer-Wells demonstrating his bohemianism by the untidiness of his dress and the length of his hair; Michael Morrison wearing a red tie and a look of importance; and, between them, a tall, dark man who must have been Prince Igor.

‘Two characters we didn’t see,’ said Luke. ‘Treschau and Silistreau. Maybe they went in before we got here.’

‘Wrong,’ said Joe. ‘Here they come.’

The two Russians were strolling along the pavement towards the hall and had now reached the foot of the front steps. These ran up to the main entrance to the hall and were flanked by a deepish area on each side, guarded from pedestrians falling into it by an iron-spiked railing. Luke was wondering whether the two Russians were planning to go into the hall, when the front door opened and Molacoff Weil came out and bounced down the steps.

Joe was right, thought Luke. Heavy as a rhinoceros and active as a cat.

The three men stood for a moment at the foot of the steps, laughing at something the donnish-looking Treschau had said. At that moment they were spotted by a reporter. He had been barred from the hall, but saw a chance of an informal interview and came hurrying up. Before he had time to say anything, Weil had picked him up and tossed him clear over the iron railing. The Russians then turned about and walked back the way they had come, still laughing.

The reporter had started to scream. Luke wondered if they ought to go to his help, but there were other men already on the spot. They made their way down into the basement by a side gate and reappeared carrying the reporter carefully. One of his legs was dangling and was clearly broken.

‘You can put it in your report if you like,’ said Joe. ‘But the old man won’t do anything about it. He don’t love the Press.’

Wensley had recently been made the subject of a smear attack over his handling of the Clapham Common murder. Objections seemed to centre round the fact that he had taken four other police officers with him to arrest Steinie Morrison.

On the following Monday evening, Luke duly reported in at Leman Street. He and Joe had decided to deal with Superintendent Joscelyne’s tiresome instructions by putting in an appearance on alternate days. Luckily the Superintendent had not yet got round to organising anything, so Luke escaped. Next day Joe was not so lucky and had to spend Tuesday evening taking statements from a number of women who were possible witnesses in a case of intimidation and extortion.

‘They all told different stories,’ he said. ‘And were all lying their bloody heads off. If the case gets to court, the judge is in for a high old time.’

On the Wednesday, when Luke looked in, the desk sergeant handed him a letter addressed to him at Leman Street. It was postmarked Lavenham. Luke recognised Reverend Millbanke’s handwriting. The Rector wrote:

Your father asked me to let you know that Sir George Spencer- Wells died two days ago. He was not a national figure and his death may not have been reported in the London papers. I have been asked to write an obituary notice which will appear in the
Ipswich Herald
next week. The funeral will be at noon on Thursday in Bellingham Parish Church. It will no doubt be largely attended by Sir George’s family and friends. When he sees you, your father will explain why he thinks you should be there. I must add that I agree with him. If you show this letter to your superior officer I am sure he will not grudge you a couple of days’ leave.

The Superintendent’s reaction was predictable. He said, ‘You need not report back here until Friday evening. Tell Narrabone that he will have to stand in for you.’

‘Do your job
and
mine,’ said Joe.
“And
see to moving all our stuff down to Poplar. Roll on retirement.’

‘It must have been – let me see—’ Hezekiah counted off the days on his gnarled fingers. ‘Yes. All of two weeks ago. ‘Twas a stroke, so I heard. Seemed he was getting over it. Then, Monday just past, before he could get out of his bed in the morning, his heart gave way.’

Hezekiah said this without any particular feeling. Life and death meant little to the old man.

‘Maybe you can guess why I thought you should be here.’

‘Yes, I can guess,’ said Luke. ‘He paid for my Russian lessons, didn’t he? The part I couldn’t pay myself.’

‘He did so. More’n once, after you’d taken yourself off to London, he talked about you. He was sorry you weren’t to be a clergyman, but he weren’t sorry about you not being a schoolmaster. He thought that was no job for a man. No more did I.’

‘I’m glad you think that,’ said Luke, and yawned as he spoke. It had been a long day. He had caught the last evening train and his father had picked him up in his trap from Ipswich. It was now close to midnight.

‘Tomorrow morning you must have a word with Mrs Parham. Poor old soul. This will have upset her more than most. More than them uncles and aunts and cousins what’ve come flocking in, never having had a word to say to Sir George while he were alive.’

‘Yes. I’d planned to look in and see her,’ said Luke, and climbed up to his old bedroom, his mind afloat with memories.

After an early breakfast he made his way across the park to the back door of the hall. He smiled when he remembered that he had once been scared of the ghostly passage inside it. Since that time he had dealt with characters more dangerous than ghosts. Mrs Parham’s room was empty, but a maid was sent to fetch her. She came bustling in, kissed Luke warmly and said, ‘It
was
good of you to come, but oh dear, oh dear, I hardly know whether I’m standing on my head or my heels. Nine family and five guests, some of them I’d never heard of before. All expecting to be looked after and Parkes in bed with a bad stomach, trying to do too much, silly old man. And everyone coming to me for instructions. But thank the Lord for one thing. When Mr Oliver heard of his father’s first attack, he didn’t waste a minute. Came straight back from Cambridge without finishing his studies and he’s been here ever since, working like a Trojan. We couldn’t never have got through without him.’

‘And Julian?’

Mrs Parham produced a noise which, in a less dignified woman, might have been described as a snort.

‘Came down yesterday,’ she said. ‘Brought a friend with him. Some sort of furriner. As if we hadn’t enough people to look after.’

‘A foreigner,’ said Luke thoughtfully. ‘What was his name?’

‘I was sure I’d forget his name, so I wrote it down. And now, with all this bustle, I seem to have lost the paper. I was told as he was a poet.’

‘A well-known Russian poet,’ said Oliver, who had come in without knocking. ‘How are you, Luke?’

After a brief pause in which the two young men struggled to accommodate the changes of seven years, Oliver added, ‘Wasn’t it an extraordinary coincidence – but a very happy one – that when Lance Durrance made a fool of himself in London, the two policemen on hand should both have been from this village.’

As Mrs Parham started to say something, he added, ‘Sir Hector and his wife are both here. I’m sure he’d like to meet you and thank you. He’s really very grateful. Though I must admit that my first reaction was one of surprise.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Numerous discourses which I have listened to, from my brother Julian, on the iniquity and unfairness of the possessing classes led me – perhaps wrongly – to think that you would hold similar opinions. Or have your experiences in the last few years changed your views?’

‘We don’t meet many of the possessing classes in Deptford. And, no. My views haven’t really changed.’

‘Then, if it’s not an impertinent question, why did you do it?’

‘The reason’s very simple. I’ve got excellent eyesight.’

‘Ah!’

‘I spotted you, as you and your friend ran off. Since I’d made up my mind to keep your name out of it, I could hardly see Lance Durrance put down.’

‘It crossed my mind that that might be the reason. So, it seems that I’m in your debt, too.’

‘Then forget it.’

‘No. I really am grateful. I’ll tell you why. It’s become obvious to me, during the last few days, that Julian is planning to slide out and I’m going to be the one who has to wear Father’s shoes. It would hardly have been a good start to my career as Squire of Bellingham if I’d been run in for brawling.’

Mrs Parham again tried to say something, but this time it was Luke who defeated her. He said, ‘Tell me, who is this Russian that Julian has brought down with him?’

‘He’s called Janis Silistreau and I’m told that he’s a well-known poet.’

‘In London he passes under the name of Ivan Morrowitz. He may have half a dozen other names as well. And he’s a very dangerous man.’

‘I see,’ said Oliver. ‘At least, I don’t see at all. But I imagine you know what you’re talking about. What do you want us to do about him?’

‘Nothing. But neither Silistreau nor anyone else must know that I’m here. I can answer for my father. And I’m sure that you’ll be discreet, Mrs P.’

Being introduced into the conversation, Mrs Parham was at last able to insert the question she had been trying to ask. She said, ‘You spoke about
two
policemen. Both from hereabouts. Who was the other one?’

‘Joe Narrabone.’

‘That it can’t be,’ said Mrs Parham. ‘He was a
very
bad boy. Why, if I ever heard of him again, I supposed it would be on a convict ship going to Australia.’

‘I think we’ve stopped sending bad boys to Australia,’ said Oliver gravely.

As he walked back to the cottage Luke was thinking how much he preferred the new Squire of Bellingham to the peevish boy he had known. He found that his father had already donned his Sunday suit, with a black band round one arm. He had a second band ready for his son.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Luke. ‘But something I’ve just heard means that I shan’t be able to attend the funeral service.’

With a wrinkling of his eyes which indicated that he was intrigued and pleased at the thought of secrecy, his father said, ‘What you heard must’ve bin uncommon serious if it’s to keep you out of church, after coming all this way along.’

Luke said, ‘Yes. It’s serious. Julian has brought down with him a man who mustn’t know that I’m here.’

‘He’d be a guest, like?’

‘Yes. He’s a guest.’

‘Then he’ll sit in the family pew. If you’re behind the crusader he’ll not see you.’

Luke knew the crusader well. As a boy he had passed the long hours of service speculating about the recumbent Lord Welles lying with his gauntleted hands clasped on his stomach and his ankles crossed. Certainly the monstrous edifice, out of all proportion to the little church, would hide him. It was tempting, but common sense prevailed. He said, ‘No. And I must get back to London before this man does. Could you find out if he’s going back today, and if so, what train he’s planning to catch?’

‘Whatever train it is, Jabez will be driving him. I’ll talk to him right away.’ The old man’s eyes were glinting at the thought of undercover enquiries for hidden ends. When he got back he said, ‘The trap’s booked for four o’clock, to catch the five o’clock train from Ipswich. If I run you to the station now I’ll be back in time for the service and you’ll be well ahead of this person. There’s a train at half past two. So you’ve time for a morsel of lunch before you go.’

The morsel proved to be the greater part of a cold pheasant, backed by potatoes baked in their skins and a pint mug of homebrewed ale. Luke fell asleep in the train, came briefly to life at Colchester and slept again until he reached King’s Cross. He got through to Wensley from the police call-box at the station, finding him, eventually, at his old office. It seemed that he was fluctuating between Poplar and Leman Street. He said, ‘Well done. I’ll send some men to cover the five o’clock train. We’d very much like to know where Silistreau’s holed up.’

The ground-floor flat in Gooseley Lane, which one of their compatriots had found for Treschau and Silistreau was convenient in a number of ways. It had a back garden which gave directly on to the East Ham recreation ground and this, in turn, on to the East Ham Level which, along with the Ripple Level and the Dagenham Marshes, bordered the north bank of the Thames. The fact of the river being within easy reach was a comfort to both of them. The night was cold and the fire which their new landlord had lit for them flamed cheerfully as Treschau inserted another lump of coal into the heart of the blaze.