September 1922
In the warm intimacy of the rear seat of a London cab, Admiral Lord Dedham stretched out his long legs and adjusted the scabbard of his dress sword so as to be sure not to snag the trailing chiffon gown of the woman by his side. It had been a long, hot evening filled with far too many blood-stirring speeches — the most incendiary of them coming from his own lips, he readily admitted. He’d received a standing ovation and that sort of thing always went to the head however tight one’s grip on reality; he’d taken on board too much adulation and too many drinks for comfort. He was longing for the moment, soon approaching, when he could relieve his chest of its cargo of medals and slip out of his much-bedecked dress uniform.
But until that blissful moment arrived, he was more than content with the present one. Even at his time of life — which he thought of as ‘vigorous middle age’ — the admiral still found that the capsule of darkness to be found in the back of a taxi, lightly scented with gardenia, good cigars and leather, sliding secretly through the roistering crowds of central London, had its enlivening effect. It had been even more invigorating in the swaying hansom cabs of his youth but his ageing bones could never regret all that bouncing about over cobbles. He reached out and seized the white-gloved hand left invitingly close to his on the banquette and lifted it to his lips with practised gallantry, a wary eye on the driver.
The observant cabby’s eyes gleamed in the rear-viewing mirror, his shoulders shook perceptibly and he launched into a cheery offering from Chu Chin Chow.
Lord Dedham had seen the musical extravaganza three times. It was his favourite musical comedy. He recognized the sumptuously romantic duet ‘Any Time’s Kissing Time’.
Cheeky blighter, Dedham thought, with an indulgent grin. Typical London cabby. Ought to be keeping his eyes on the road, not spying on his passengers. He wondered if his companion would take offence. Many women would.
His companion responded to the effrontery by leaning mischievously towards the admiral and biting his ear, her aim, in the dark, surprisingly sure. Then she joined in with the song, timing her entrance perfectly, weaving her clear soprano voice into the chorus to sing along with the cabby.
‘Nearly there, my love,’ growled Dedham. ‘Did you ask Peterson to wait up?’
‘As though he’d agree to do otherwise, Oliver! He’ll be there waiting with your eggnog at the ready. But I dismissed your valet. I’ll help you out of that clanking regalia myself.’ And, as though the promise of eggnog and wifely ministrations was not enough to stiffen the sinews, she squeezed his arm as they turned from the hurly-burly of Buckingham Palace Road into the quiet opulence of the streets approaching Melton Square. ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you home again, darling, and I shall go on saying that until you beg me to stop. And when we arrive, you will remember to do as Joe told you, won’t you?’
‘Dash it all, Cassandra, we’re in Belgravia not Belfast!’ he objected.
Lady Dedham quelled her husband’s predictable splutterings by her usual method of putting a finger firmly over his mouth. ‘And thank God for that! But your young friend at the Yard is worth hearing. It’s a very simple arrangement. It makes complete sense. We must prepare ourselves to observe this routine until all the unpleasantness blows over or you and that fire-eater Churchill stop making sabre-rattling speeches, darling, whichever is the sooner. Yo u it was who insisted on dismissing the police protection squad Joe kindly set up for you, and now you must perform your part of the bargain.’
‘Protection squad!’ The admiral spat out his derision.
‘He didn’t have to do that, you know — over and above his duty. You’re an ungrateful piggy-wig, Oliver. You listen to no one. I can’t think why you objected. Those Branch men he sent round were terribly discreet … really, you’d no idea they were there. And the young one was incredibly handsome! I was so enjoying having him about the place. He cheered us all up.’ She weathered his splutter of outrage and sailed on. ‘But you agreed to the commander’s alternative proposals and I for one shall hold you to your promise. I have a part too, you know, and I fully intend to play it. I expect nothing less from you. Now — tell the driver what you want him to do. And don’t cut it short — I shall be listening!’
The taxi pulled up in front of a late Georgian house on the northern side of the park-like boulevard that was Melton Square. Heavily porticoed balconies and densely planted patches of garden gave these houses an air of discreet dignity. Dedham looked about him with satisfaction at the solid grandeur, the sedate Englishness, the well-lit pavements, of what he considered to be the heart of London. Nothing truly stirring had happened, in public at least, here in the Five Fields since the Earl of Harrington’s cook had been set upon and beaten to death by highwaymen a century before. Since the arrival of the gas-lamps, the only crimes hereabouts were committed behind closed doors by the inhabitants themselves and went unrecorded unless, chiming with the spirit of the times, they gave rise to an ennoblement of some sort for the perpetrator. There were more rich, influential villains per square yard here in this genteel quarter than in Westminster, the admiral always reckoned.
He frowned to see one of these approaching. A gent in evening dress, opera cape about his shoulders, top hat at a louche angle over his forehead, was weaving his way uncertainly along the pavement.
‘I say, Cassie.’ He drew his wife’s attention to the staggering figure. ‘Who’s this? Do we know him? He looks familiar.’
‘He is familiar! Look away at once, Oliver!’ Cassandra put up a hand, seized his chin and turned his head from the window. ‘I forget you scarcely know your own neighbours. But that’s ghastly old Chepstow. Drunk as a lord again!’
‘If that’s Chepstow he is a lord,’ objected Dedham, trying to turn for a better view. ‘He’s entitled, you might say.’
‘It’s no joke, Oliver! Stay still and give him time to move off. He’ll recognize you. And you’re the one man in London everyone — drunk or sober — wants to talk to and shake hands with. You really have no idea, have you? You’re twice a hero now, you know. He’d expect to be invited in for a nightcap. Darling, you’ve been away from me for six months! I’ve no intention of sharing you with any old toper.’ She pulled his head down into an enthusiastic kiss. ‘Ah … there he goes … Now, Oliver — the cabby’s waiting. Get on with the briefing.’
The driver had been grinning in understanding throughout the conversation. He seemed to have a sense of humour and Dedham prepared himself for a sarcastic response to the guff he was about to spout. However, the man accepted his fare and the generous tip he usually enjoyed from the denizens of these fifteen square acres and listened, head tilted in an attitude of exaggerated attention, to the request that came with it. He nodded when the briefing was over and returned a simple ‘Understood, sir’ in response to the crisp naval tones.
As instructed, he hooted twice and waited for thirty seconds before winking his headlights three times. He even managed to keep a straight face throughout the proceedings. ‘There we are, sir. Signal acknowledged. Light’s come on in the vestibule,’ he said, enjoying the game. ‘And the front door’s opening. Here we go! Time for the lady to make her sortie.’
With a snort of amusement Lord Dedham understood that the man had been listening as his wife rehearsed him in his exit tactics.
‘Road’s clear and well lit, sir, no suspicious persons or obstacles in sight, but I’ll get out, take a quick recce and then launch the lady.’ The driver had suddenly about him the briskness and wariness of an old soldier. ‘Just in case. You never know who’s lurking in the shrubbery these days.’
He got out and walked up the path, peering into the bushes. He kicked out at an innocent laurel or two before returning to the rear of his motor to open up for Lady Dedham.
‘Fire Torpedo One!’ she said with a grin for the cabby and, clutching her evening bag tightly in her right hand, she walked off quickly towards the front door the butler was holding wide in welcome. She turned on the doorstep and gave a merry wave.
Before the driver could fire his second charge, a slight form dashed across the street and accosted him. ‘A taxi! What luck. In fact, the first stroke of luck I’ve had tonight. Park Lane please, cabby. Pink’s Hotel — do you know it? And fast if you wouldn’t mind.’ The stranger fiddled around, tugging open with nervous fingers the velvet evening bag she carried dangling from one wrist. She exclaimed with frustration as a handful of coins fell clinking to the ground, and her thanks to the cabby, who scrambled on his knees to retrieve them in the dark, were embarrassed and voluble. Her discomfort increased when she caught sight of Lord Dedham’s legs reaching for the pavement. ‘Oh, frightfully sorry! Cabby — you already have a fare?’
‘Don’t worry, miss!’ Dedham’s reassuring voice boomed out. ‘Leaving, not entering. It takes a while to get my two old legs working in concert. You may drive straight on, cabby. As soon as I’ve disembarked my old carcass.’
‘But you told me just now to wait until-’
Lord Dedham cut him off. ‘Nonsense! The lady’s in a hurry. Take her where she wants to go.’
He accepted an arm in support from the grateful young girl and struggled out, shaking down his uniform and straightening his sword. Very pretty, he thought, with a sideways glance at the slender figure under its satin evening coat and the pure profile set off by the head-hugging feathered hat. He wondered with amused speculation from which of his well-to-do neighbours she could be running away. Not a difficult question: it must be that bounder Ingleby Mountfitchet at number 39. She’d appeared from that direction and was casting anxious glances back towards his house. Dedham followed her gaze with chivalrous challenge. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl had fled screeching in the night from that cad’s clutches. If rumour was right he’d been kicked out of his regiment. And it would seem that in civvie street his conduct continued to be unbecoming of a gentleman. High time someone took him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and told him that sort of behaviour would not be tolerated in this part of town. Dedham resolved that neighbourly questions would be asked. By him. In the morning.
He walked the few yards to his door, smiling, eager to share his piece of salty gossip with his wife.
He reached the doorstep and greeted his butler with an affectionate bellow. ‘There you are, Peterson. All’s well with us, you see. We’ve survived the evening. Though it was touch and go at one point — her ladyship nearly died of boredom. During one of my own speeches!’ The expected joking sally was the last intelligible pronouncement the admiral uttered.
Two dark-clad figures crept from the laurel bushes. One called out the admiral’s name. When he spun round, identifying himself, they took up position with professional stealth, a man on each side of the doorstep. Both men fired at the same time.
‘Service Webleys,’ the admiral had time to note before, caught in the cross-fire, he was struck by two bullets in the chest.
An onlooker would have concluded, from the victim’s reaction, that the shots had missed their target. Oblivious of his wounds, he strode back outside with a roar of outrage and drew his sword from its scabbard.
The man who had commanded the fire-power of a dozen twelve-inch guns and a crew of seven hundred aboard a battlecruiser in the North Sea now found himself fighting for his life with a dress sword, alone on his own doorstep, but he laid about him with no less relish, attacking by instinct first the larger, more menacing of the pair. He caught him a slicing blow to the cheek. A combat sword in fine fettle would have split the man’s face in two, but, despite the blunt edge, the admiral was encouraged to see he’d drawn blood. Delighted by the howl of pain he’d provoked, he went for the smaller man, chopping at his gun hand.
A third bullet hit Dedham in the heart.
His sword clattered to the paving and he folded at the knees, collapsing sideways into the arms of his wife. Unconcerned for her own safety, Cassandra had run back to her husband and knelt by his side, supporting him with her left arm. He opened his lips to whisper ‘Kiss me, Cassie’ as he’d often joked that he would in a playful tribute to his hero, Lord Nelson, should he be laid low and preparing for death. But no words would come. He couldn’t seem to draw breath. And Cassandra’s attention was elsewhere. With a croak of astonishment, the admiral blinked to see his wife freeing her right hand from her bag. Unaccountably, the hand he’d so recently fondled in the taxi now held a small pistol which she fired off, shot after purposeful shot, at the fleeing pair. Her scream of encouragement to the butler rang in his ears: ‘After them! Stop the ruffian scum, Peterson!’
Lord Dedham smiled admiringly up at her and his eyes closed on the sight of his wife taking careful aim down the barrel of her Beretta.
The two gunmen raced to the taxi, firing backwards over their shoulders at Peterson who chased after them armed with nothing but fury and his bare hands. They bundled themselves into the back seat next to the shrieking woman in the feathered hat. Unsurprisingly, she rapidly made space for them and their guns on the back seat.
Hit in the shoulder and leg and bleeding on to the pavement, the butler raised his head and watched as the motor erupted into a three-point turn. In his agitation, the driver seemed to clash his gears and the car ground to a juddering halt, its rear licence plate clearly in view in the light of the lamp. Peterson focused, stared and repeated the number to himself.
In the distance a police whistle sounded and the boots of the beat bobby pounded along the pavement. Peterson called out faintly.
At last, the taxi screeched off with a great deal of revving but little forward momentum.
The turbulence in the back seat threw up a stink of sweat, the iron odour of blood and a reek of cordite. This noxious cocktail was accompanied by a gabbling argument in a language the driver could not understand. But rage soon expressed itself in plain English. ‘Stop farting about, you bastard! Drive!’ the larger of the two men snarled. ‘To Paddington station. Fast. Miss one more gear and you get it in the neck yourself. Like this.’ He pulled back his gun to point it ahead through the open window at the beat bobby who had placed himself squarely in the road in front of the taxi, one hand holding a whistle to his mouth, the other raised in the traffic-stopping gesture. This calm Colossus held his position as the taxi came on, impregnable in his authority.
Two shots sent the imposing figure crashing on to the road.
The cabby swerved violently and deftly mounted the pavement to avoid running over the body.
‘Leave it to me, sir,’ he said, apparently unperturbed by the hot gun-barrel now boring into his flesh. ‘I know these streets like the back of my hand. We’ll go the quickest way.’ And, light but reassuring: ‘Don’t you worry, sir — I’ll get you to the station all right.’