A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (28 page)

“Well it's one of those funny things, I think I resent any kind of authority over me in any way, shape, or form, and so I naturally buck the system.”

“Do you miss being a soldier?”

Harry considered the question.

“No, once I would have said yes with all of my being, but not anymore. Do you miss it? I mean I read that you were once a soldier yourself before you took to writing about it.”

Brody Monaghan smiled.

“Once a soldier of the Irish Republican Army, always a soldier. I’ll serve until my last breath. The difference between us my friend is that I have a cause to believe in and to serve, you have nothing.”

Monaghan’s statement had struck him hard. He knew it was true. He had been drifting aimlessly since Mandell and the army. He had no life. Even Jean had something to go back to. Devon, Johnny, Jenny, they all had a place, he had nothing. He made up his mind that when he at last got out, he would find a purpose again. He would find his place in the word.

A year crawled by and before he realised it, another six months had also drifted by like so much Dartmoor mist. Nothing seemed to change and he became resigned to waiting out his sentence, and he hoped his life would continue after he walked free through the gates.

June 1943

One bleak morning, Royle was awoken abruptly from yet another night’s restless sleep. But this time it wasn’t a cold sweat brought on by recurring images of the ironworks girl with the scar, or Ruth trapped in the tube station, but instead came in the shape of a burly warder standing over him. The man’s shadow blocking the little light the cell window allowed to creep into the room. Harry blinked his night tired eyes awake, as the man bellowed in his face.

“Get up Royle, I said now on yer feet before I plant you, Up.”

Harry Royle was in no mood to play games, and so he decided instead to play the meek prisoner. He dressed in a hurry, watched by the tall glaring man in the corner and then allowed himself to be led out of the cell and down the corridor, off the wing. He didn’t bother asking his escort what his crime was, deciding not to waste his breath. He turned over in his mind all the recent events he had been a party to, in an attempt to shed some light on the reason for the early morning journey, but could think of nothing. He hadn’t even thought of escape in a long time and so couldn’t be fingered for that.

He was brought back to the present, as they stopped abruptly. They stood before a plain wooden office door. As a rule, there were two places a prisoner would expect to be taken. The first was the senior officer to get a charge read out, and the second would be to see the governor if the first trip had failed. This was different, for this door led to neither destination and it really made Harry worry. The warder unlocked the office door and pushed Royle through, following and locking it behind them. The tall man pointed to a chair in front of a desk and Harry sat down in a defiant manner, a gesture not lost on the guard, who glared back at him and left the room.

Harry, now alone, was able to look around the room, reports piled high on the desk, rules and regulations hung on the walls from hooks. Posters faded from age and nicotine promised the good things to those who served the law. He was just pocketing a pen and a half packet of Polo mints while glancing at a report as he heard a footfall on the other side of the door. The door opened, revealing not the warder this time, but a different man. The new man was a small, dapper little fellow in a pinstripe suit of charcoal grey. A watch chain snaked across the man’s waistcoat pockets. He had a pale open face with a weak chin. His unblinking cold grey eyes made for a less than honest appearance. The man was carrying a small brown leather briefcase, which he placed on the table.

The small man took the seat across from Royle and took out a thin engraved gold cigarette case. Flipping it open, he took out two cigarettes and handed one across the table without a word. Taking a lighter from his pocket he lit both of them up and then sat back, taking a long draw before exhaling a smoky breath. Harry enjoyed the taste of the free cigarette, quality was not something to be refused and this was the best smoke he’d tasted in over a year. The well-dressed stranger seemed happy to just sit and smoke without a word being exchanged between them. The door behind the man opened, and a warder with a tray walked in. The tray was left and the guard made an exit.

The man now spoke for the first time.

“Now what have we here? Tea, and I do believe we have some biscuits, don’t suppose you see many of those, do you, Mr Royle?”

The voice was cut glass, and the manner screamed Whitehall. Harry looked at him, without answering, but enjoyed the tea and biscuits for their own sake. The man spoke again before Harry could gather his thoughts.

“I imagine that you are wondering who I am, and why I have had you brought here.”

Harry Royle leaned over and drank his tea, as he stared at the man who faced him. The man smiled back at him and met his eyes unfazed.

“You really have nothing to be concerned about Mr Royle, I am here to offer you something and I can assure you, it is something you will be very happy about.”

Harry looked up at him and shuffled uneasily in his chair. Leaning forward the man offered another cigarette and taking one himself, talked as they smoked. Now he had Royle’s interest.

“I do apologise for being dramatic, and more than a little cloak and dagger, old habits. I have come this day to present you with a Royal Pardon.”

The man now had Harry’s full attention, as opening the briefcase, he removed a cardboard folder. Royle found his voice.

“What?”

“I assure you there are no conditions attached to this. I have in front of me a King’s Royal Pardon. It will ensure you of your freedom and it fully exonerates you of all crimes pertaining to, and connected with the Manchester ironworks robbery. Harry Royle, you are this day a free man.”

Royle felt unable to function for several seconds and despite the tea, found his throat tight and dry. At last he managed to speak.

“Why? They don’t hand out pardons for no reason.”

“Reasons? I am told that there are many reasons, I am, however, not at liberty to divulge all of these. I can say, however, that certain persons of influence within the upper circles of government were most impressed with you saving the child. Your work with the somewhat unorthodox unofficial rescue squad, has also been taken into account, as well as your work as a member of the ARP when you could so easily have been in hiding. To say nothing of the Captain Mandel debacle, which began the whole squalid chain of events, which have ended with you sitting here today. It is felt and as I say this is at a somewhat high level, that you have been dealt a bad hand.”

“”Is it real? No strings?”

The man passed the folder across to Royle, who took it in his trembling hand. He studied the document carefully, taking in every precious word.

“There are no terms or conditions, it is already in-place. We will leave here together within the hour and not only do you at last have your freedom, but also your good name. Harry Royle, you are a free man.”

Harry managed a weak smile and asked.

“And your name?”

“I go by many names, you can call me Mr Smith, not very original, but it will have to do.”

Mr Smith handed Royle the brown leather briefcase, which contained a full set of documents, all in his correct name and also a small amount of money and a train ticket to London. Harry, stunned, was taken back to his cell to collect his few meagre belongings, before being driven to Tavistock station. Mr Smith saw him onto the train and left him alone, to complete his journey home.

Harry Royle sat on the train and couldn’t help but look at the other passengers, who seeing him stare, shot looks of their own back at him. He felt torn, part of him wanted to be recognised so he could show them his pardon. Another part of him desperately wanted to run. His eyes darted to the emergency cord. Each time the train slowed, he looked for good spots to jump from. He was shaking and if he’d been asked why, he would have had no single answer to give. The time dragged and his thoughts raced, unlike the train, which stopped so many times, as to make the journey seem endless. At last they reached the capital and Harry stepped down, half expecting a call or at the very least a police whistle. Nothing came, beyond the push and shove of the late afternoon crowds. The raider siren sounded as he set foot on the pavement and he

looked up, knowing what was to come, but being grateful for the chance to be a part of life once more.

It took him ages to get to the flat in Camden Town. He couldn’t find a cab and transport was all over the place. When he did reach it, it was gone, the whole block was nothing but rubble. He felt his throat close up, as he tried to swallow. His thoughts went to the tube station where he’d lost Ruth. Had Jean died the same way? And if she had, when? He had only seen her recently. He hadn’t had a visit in two months and he supposed that it must have happened recently, but why hadn’t he been told. He lit a cigarette and cursed them all, Devon, Johnny and Jenny. Why had they not had the common decency to let him know? If they were trying to protect him, they had done a bad job of it.

He wandered around aimlessly for more than an hour and then walked into a pub. He drank beers, one after another and each tasted flat to him. He complained to the barman and was pushed out as a trouble maker. His stomach ached, as he had eaten nothing since the early morning biscuits and his heart was heavy. Reaching into his pocket he found the Polo's and smiling popped a couple into his mouth.

It was ten thirty when he pushed open the street door of The White Cat and walked in. The Jazz hit him and sounded unreal to his ears. Voices crowded in, as he stumbled across the dancefloor. He had taken just a few steps when he heard glass breaking and the music seemed to slow and then come to a complete stop. He heard a voice deep and guttural shouting something, what it was, he couldn’t quite understand, then everything went hazy and turned to black.

“Harry? Are you with us love?”

His senses returned slowly. First the words, then the voice, and finally the face. Her face. He looked up and saw Jean smiling down at him. She looked like a nurse to his tired grateful eyes. She suddenly came into sharp focus and he could see that she was in fact dressed in a nurse’s uniform. As he sat up, she threw her arms around him and told him she loved him. They held onto each other for a long time, then they kissed. As their lips parted, he had last found his voice.

“I’m back for good, no more running. Get my briefcase and open it, quick.”

Intrigued, she jumped up and grabbed the brown leather case and opening it, found what was inside. She spent five long minutes scrutinising every word on the paper, as Royle waited quietly, with bated breath.

“Is this real? Truly?”

He smiled at her and knew for the first time, just how much he loved her. Looking around, he realised that he was in a small flat. The flat it turned out was Devon’s old one above the club. Devon had insisted Jean took the flat when she had been bombed out six weeks before. He had moved in with his new girlfriend, who was also the singer in the band. They talked for hours, as she caught Harry up with all he had missed during his lost eighteen months. The biggest surprise was to discover that Jean was now on the ambulances and as a working nurse had seen more death and destruction than he had. She talked about her work casually and Royle felt so proud of her. She seemed different, older and more confident, but still his Jean.

It took him three days to get his bearings and feel more like his old self again. It was that third night, that saw Harry and Jean make a grand entrance onto the dancefloor of The White Cat. Devon’s guitar oozed smoke, as he began the opening bars of what he considered Jean’s song, A nightingale sang in Berkley Square. Those already on the floor cleared a space, for the two guests of honour. Johnny had laid on drinks and Jenny was happier than anyone had seen her in a very long time. The couple danced and as the song faded, an unexpected face from Royle’s past appeared.

“Hello, Harry, welcome home.”

Royle stopped in his tracks and turned to see Alan Parry, who was now standing in front of him. Parry was holding up a newspaper, which bore the headline ‘No prison could hold Harry Royle’. Parry smiled at Harry, and slowly extended a hand, in a gesture of goodwill.

“You have some nerve, Parry.”

Alan Parry grinned and pointed to a lower sub-heading, which stated that the article on page two would tell how Alan Parry had left no stone unturned in his campaign to free the much-wronged man. Without another word, Royle punched Parry full in the face, knocking him off his feet. Smirking, Harry turned to the barman and ordered a whisky for the reporter. Jean patted Harry’s arm and steered him away.

The night belonged to Harry Royle and he enjoyed his moment with Jean by his side and among his friends.