‘Well?’ he asked, ‘You recognize him?’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes. He’s neither Swiss nor German. He’s English. His name is James Railton. Does that amuse you?’
Slowly, Nicolai shook his head. ‘No, but it interests me. We can do much with a man called James Railton.’
And in his cell, James sat, quoting aloud from The Tempest. There was the scent of English flowers in his nostrils, and his heart shook with fear. His cousin, Marie, had used a scent which smelled just like this. He knew it well.
‘A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,
Now useless, boiled within thy skull. There stand,
For you are spell-stopped…’
Hell was about to come down around his ears, and the solitude would have been sanity by comparison.
*
On 30 December, HMS Natal blew up, in a great ball of fire, with no warning, at Cromarty in Scotland. ‘The Fisherman’ had spoken yet again, and was drawing closer to those with whom he would soon become, unexpectedly, involved.
Part Three
Terms of Trade
(January 1916 – October 1935)
Chapter One
It was on Giles Railton’s personal instructions – passed by Basil Thomson – that a Special Branch watch on Charles was kept within a tight circle which did not include Vernon Kell. Giles had spent too long among the shadows himself to allow it to become what he would term public knowledge. It was this surveillance which first led them to Hans Crescent.
Unknown to either Madeline or Charles, some of the Special Branch officers quietly forced their way into the rooms in Hans Crescent, and rigged up their own listening device – built from telephones, and bits and pieces of army communications equipment. It was rough and ready, but the military had learned a great deal from the enemy on the Western Front. The Germans had been listening in, regularly, not only to the field telephones, but also by placing microphones near trench breastworks. The latest listening gadget was now concealed behind the metal flanges of the Hans Crescent bedroom’s air vent.
It was not wholly successful, but eighty per cent of the conversations which took place in that bedroom were heard, written down in shorthand – using several different listeners – and transcribed, again by many hands, into reports seen in their entirety only by Basil Thomson and Giles Railton.
Giles took little pleasure in reading page upon page of these documents. As it came straight from the bedroom there were, naturally, entries which simply read: The subjects appeared to be indulging themselves sexually for the following hour. No reliable conversation could be heard.
But there were some conversations of immense interest, and one such took place very early on in January.
They were in the bedroom when Charles taxed Madeline over the question of important information. Somehow she did not seem to comprehend the seriousness of the situation into which they had both become inextricably dovetailed.
‘I’m giving you all I can – all I know,’ she complained. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Of course it’s not. Can’t you see, what you’re giving me isn’t possible to use in these circumstances. You’ve pleaded for me not to go to my people, and, like a fool, I’ve agreed. Now, it’s too late. I have to go sooner or later…’
As always, she became nearly hysterical when he spoke of telling the authorities. ‘Steinhauer’s men will get to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I promise, Charles, this is the only safe way. Put me even in the Tower of London, and he’ll get to me. For God’s sake, if you love me, please don’t have me taken in.’
‘It’s both our necks, darling. Both of us. They can have you for espionage any time – and they won’t hesitate to shoot you, not after the Cavell woman. As for me… Well, it’ll look pretty bad,’ he took a deep breath, ‘They’ll have me on toast as well. Dawn, a wall, a post and a firing squad.’
‘You don’t know what Steinhauer’s like. He controls all operations in England. He says his men are everywhere…’
‘That’s rubbish. If we say you’ve just arrived, and keep you under a twenty-four hour guard, you’ll be fine…’
‘He’ll have me killed.’ Her voice suddenly became very calm. ‘You’ve kept your side of the bargain. You know what they’re looking for…’
‘What they’ve always looked for: dockyards; troop movements; ship movements…’ He paused, and the listeners heard noises of movements as Charles got out of bed, pulled the curtains closed and lit the gas. ‘Madeline, I know we could keep you safe. Why are you so certain you’d be killed?’
Softly – it was only just audible to the listeners – she said, ‘Because Steinhauer has a man here, in England. He’s done it before, and will do it again.’
‘How do you know? Tell me about this man.’
‘I just know he’s here.’
‘Who told you? Steinhauer?’
She did not hesitate. ‘No, Steinhauer’s said nothing. I’ve overheard him talking; and listened to others. Some speak openly about him, but he’s feared. They call him “The Fisherman”.’
‘“The Fisherman”? Why?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, only that’s what he’s called in Berlin – either “The Fisherman” or “Saint Peter”, because he fishes for souls. Listen, you remember there was a ship which blew up – when? 1914? November? Soon after the war began. Yes, November. Just blew up.’
‘HMS Bulwark. Exploded with no warning. Sheerness. Yes?’
‘He did that. “The Fisherman” planted the bomb that made the Bulwark explode; others – the one in December, Natal. Charles, there are plans for him to deal with other ships.’
‘If that’s true, then he’s a saboteur. Yes, he’s killed people, but they are naval personnel…’
‘He’s killed at least two men.’ There was fear in her voice, as though even talking about this man might bring death.
‘Oh?’ Charles sounded alert. Unknown to the listeners, he had a sudden terrifying memory. The darkening street in Rosscarbery, Ireland. The blood and the axe. The huge man, limping towards him, on the opposite side of the road. Why? There was no connection.
‘I know there was one man in Portsmouth; another in London; and a woman in Scotland.’ Madeline almost whispered.
‘Two men and a woman. No names? Nothing else?’
‘Nothing… Yes…’
There was a pause. Finally she spoke again, ‘Yes. I know how he killed. All three were strangled. A white silk scarf. That’s all I know about it.’
This particular conversation remained intact in the transcript. ‘I think we should begin to look through the files,’ Basil Thomson said to Giles.
Giles shook his head, ‘No. Well, yes, by all means look through the files with the Criminal Investigation Department, but I would counsel no action as yet.’
‘If it’s true. “…more plans… to deal with other ships in a similar way.” We can’t risk leaving him loose.’
‘For a day or so only. I may be regarded as a cold fish, but I don’t want to see my nephew brought to trial for espionage and treason. Give me a day or so. See if Charles takes any initiative.’
‘A couple of days, then.’ Thomson thought the whole business was exceptionally serious.
So did Giles, which was why he happened by Vernon Kell’s office during the late afternoon of the day on which he read the transcript, and was present when the first news concerning Mary Anne came in.
Kell always made time for Giles, and the conversation went back and forth for ten minutes or so, then Giles casually asked what Charles was on at the moment.
‘Heaven knows,’ Kell flung up his hands. ‘The man never stops. He’s got some bee in his bonnet about sabotage now; some strange lead; gone dashing off to Portsmouth – which reminds me, I’ll have to get hold of him, a friend of mine in Movement Control has news of Mary Anne. Girl’s turned up at her old posting – the General Hospital in Rouen. The RAMC Commanding Officer
has asked for the paperwork, which doesn’t exist, of course.’
Giles hardly reacted to what was essentially good news for the Railton family. Instead, he continued with his questions about Charles – what was this sabotage business? Where had the lead come from? What was Charles up to?
‘Charles is an old hand, now. A very successful officer and doesn’t need me on his back twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Well, at least he’s taking the business seriously,’ Giles told Basil Thomson the next day.
‘I know,’ Thomson sounded oddly bitter. ‘After our conversation two of my men checked through the files at The Yard. Your nephew had beaten them to it, and the idiots in the Criminal Investigation Department had failed to make any connection between the three murders. All quite obvious, but in different parts of the country, so they’re on the unsolved file.’
‘And there are two men and a woman, as she said?’
‘Exactly as she said. A Naval Lieutenant called Fiske, found in the dockyard, Portsmouth, November 1914; a fifty-year-old chemist, in the back of his shop – Camberwell – last July: name of Douthwaite; and a woman of thirty-two, a Mrs MacGregor, in a boarding house, just before Christmas: Invergordon. All strangled; white silk scarf; particular kind of knot; MacGregor’d recently had sexual intercourse – no sign of rape. Someone suggested the work of a naval officer. The white silk scarf, right?’
‘You’re suggesting that our man is a naval officer?’
‘Treachery isn’t confined to the other side, Giles. If German Intelligence had the wit to plant people on us years ago, then it’s likely they’ve already penetrated the Army and Navy. I want to put one of my best men onto this business. First we have to find exactly what Fiske, Douthwaite, and Mrs MacGregor had in common.’
Giles paused, giving the hint of a nod. ‘You already have Charles working on it.’
‘Then, with respect, I really think we should haul Charles up in front of Vernon Kell, and arrest the Valkyrie of Hans Crescent. Get it into the open.’
‘Give it twenty-four hours, Basil. Let’s see if Charles has really got anything. It could save us time in the long run.’ But twenty-four hours was too long by half.
*
Charles had told Madeline that she was only to go out if her people instructed her to do so. Always she must leave a note, tucked behind the picture above the main room’s fireplace, giving him some idea of where she might be. He did not know how long the investigation would take: after all he was not a trained detective. Yet, as Thomson later related, he beat the official CID and Branch people by a mile.
First he began with the chemist in Camberwell. His death had not been in the chronological order of things, but, as Charles was in London, then he must start in London.
The facts of the case were straightforward. Cecil Douthwaite had lived over his shop – five rooms, one of which he occasionally let out, a practice taken up after his wife’s death in 1913.
He ran the shop, which he had bought in 1899, with the help of his wife until her death, employing only a boy to take prescriptions to customers, or items to local doctors. Since his wife’s death he had also employed a young woman – Dorothy Knapp – to help in the shop. She was the only person authorized to hold the second set of keys. The occasional lodgers were given a single key which admitted them to the side entrance, bypassing the shop, dispensary, and store room.
On the night of 16 July 1915, Miss Knapp had left the shop at her usual time, six-thirty in the evening. Mr Douthwaite gave her a cheery, ‘Goodnight, behave yourself, don’t be late in the morning.’ Apart from the murderer, Dotty Knapp, who was only twenty-two years of age, was the last person to see him alive.
The next morning, 17 July, she had arrived in the morning at eight-thirty, to find that her employer was not in his usual place, the dispensary. She was immediately alarmed. It was so unlike the man. The store room was locked, so she walked through to the stairs and called. No reply. She went up and found him, in his little sitting room. He was bolt upright in his favourite chair; the face was blue and the silk scarf had been knotted so tightly that his windpipe had been shattered.
The police officer in charge of the case had noted that the victim almost certainly knew his murderer, or, at least, trusted him. He was obviously taken by surprise, and there was evidence to suggest that someone had been seated, for a while, in the other, matching, chair.
Using a Metropolitan Police Warrant Card – a common practice among senior officers of the Department – Charles started to sift local records and talk to people. In a matter of hours he discovered significant facts overlooked by the police: that the late Mrs Douthwaite’s maiden name was Gerda Erzberger, born in Hamburg, 1873. Her parents had emigrated, settling in London when she was seven.
Immediately he asked for a check on the parents with the DORA Aliens List, to find that they had both returned to Germany in 1911.
From Dotty Knapp, who turned out to be a pert and cheeky little brunette with large eyes, he learned that, towards the end of 1914, Mr Douthwaite had a regular lodger (‘He liked to call him a paying guest though,’ she rolled her big eyes, ‘sounded more genteel.’) This man was not there all the time, but kept up regular payments. ‘Well, he couldn’t be at Mr Douthwaite’s all the time, could he? Him being a seafaring man, like.’
No, she never heard his name. Yes, she saw him often enough. Of course she could describe him – which she did. Charles felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Rosscarbery, and the big, limping man climbed into his head. How did she know he was a seafaring man? She couldn’t say. Maybe Mr Douthwaite told her, she just could not recall.
Charles went off to Portsmouth, and looked at the facts, against those on file. In November 1914, Lieutenant Alexander Paul Fiske, aged thirty, was waiting to be assigned to a new ship.
Alexander Fiske, Charles learned, had been trained, after the normal manner of naval officers, at Dartmouth. There was no mention of his previous school on his record, though his service was without blemish.
Both parents were deceased, but the fact which interested Charles more than anything was the reason he was waiting for a new ship. His last had been HMS Bulwark. Lieutenant Fiske had been lucky. He had gone on leave the morning of the explosion.
A shore patrol found his body, on 28 November 1914, half-hidden behind some oil drums. The scarf used to strangle him was his own.
The other information which Charles managed to cull in Portsmouth was that Fiske had few real friends. He also spoke German.
Charles was about to leave for Scotland when the message came through asking him to get in touch with his wife, and with a Mr Vernon.
Cautiously, over the telephone, Kell told him about Mary Anne. He also asked Charles if he would postpone his trip to Scotland. He should really see his wife before going further afield.
Mildred was oddly incoherent on the telephone. Her speech was slurred; and she seemed to flit from subject to subject like a gadfly. Obviously she was relieved that Mary Anne was safe, but the conversation was interspersed with odd and jumpy questions. Where could she have been? Why had she gone back to Rouen? Last, and rather distressing, could Charles please bring home some of those nice acidic drops he sometimes bought? Mildred, it seemed, had a craving for the acidic drops and she went on about it at length, until the thread of her conversation became so tangled that she just stopped and laughed strangely. Alarmed, Charles took the first train back to London.
*
‘The Fisherman’ did not go out very much these days, but spent his time waiting for instructions. He already had the primary order – to find another target, and deal with it.
He had been involved in doing this up until the unfortunate affair at Invergordon. Fiske and Douthwaite had been bad enough, though he told himself they were both necessary. How else do you deal with people who had lost their nerve? Cecil Douthwaite did not have much nerve to start with. Alice MacGregor was different. He had been perfectly safe at her little boarding hou
se. Nobody had asked questions, and he walked for miles, observing what vessels were anchored in Cromarty Firth. The right one would be there eventually, and he had all the papers, uniform, and other documents needed, together with the explosive, in a safe place.
Alice MacGregor had been lonely, and she liked him. She had proved that years ago. Safe as houses, he thought, until that night when everything went mad. Well, he could not return to Invergordon or Cromarty Firth for a while, so the only possible answer was to sit tight. If nothing happened by the end of March, he would go up North again.
The note came during the late afternoon, addressed to him, and marked, URGENT. BY HAND.
It was simple, and to the point. It said:
M6, WHO IS KNOWN TO YOU, IS LIKELY TO SPOIL ALL PRESENT ORDERS. SUGGEST YOU DEAL WITH THE MATTER PERSONALLY. ST.
Appended to the letter was an address. ‘The Fisherman’ shaved, put on his heavy coat and hat, then took a white silk scarf from one of the drawers. He would purchase another tomorrow.
*
She thought the knock at the door could be Charles, so rushed to answer it.
‘You?’ She smiled.
‘You didn’t think I’d…’
‘No. No, it’s not that. Walter said you might…’
‘Time to talk seriously. Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ She opened the door for her visitor and then closed it.
Her back was turned for a moment, and that was when her caller strangled her, there and then, in the hallway.
*
‘The Fisherman’ walked carefully round the building. He thought he smelled watchers, and he was right – two of them, concealed in the shadow of a doorway with a clear view of the entrance.
But there was nobody watching the tradesmen’s door around the corner – not even from overlooking windows. ‘The Fisherman’ could always detect watchers, even hidden behind the darkest windows.
The only clues would be footprints in the heavy frost which sparkled on the pavements. They would be gone by morning.
Taking a small jemmy from his overcoat pocket he broke the lock on the tradesmen’s door. There were lights in the main hall, and the sound of conversation came from behind a door.