Mask of the Verdoy (34 page)

‘This,’ said Harley, pulling out the address book from his jacket pocket.

‘What’s in it?’

‘The names and addresses of the upper echelons of London’s high society. The dates and locations of all the most important socialite dos—plus all the latest dirt on the British aristocracy. In other words, a house-breaker and blackmailer’s wet dream.’

‘And that’s what they killed those three lads for?’

‘I agree with yer—doesn’t sound right, does it? That’s all Harper and Aubrey thought they had, but I just wonder …’ Harley flicked to the back of the book. ‘Here we go—
bingo!
’

Pearson moved closer to see what Harley was looking at.

‘Is that in code?’

‘No. I reckon it’s just initials against some kind of nicknames or pseudonyms. Look, here! “
St C”
, well that’s gotta be Saint Clair, right?’

‘“
St C—Lion Passant”
. What’s that, then?’

‘Well, I’m pretty sure that
lion passant
is from heraldry.’

‘And the title at the top—“
The Verdoy
”, what does that mean?’

‘Haven’t a clue. I’ve never heard of it before. Sounds old though, don’t it? From the Middle Ages or something … or French, maybe? And look—
“ABH”!
I tell you, Pearson, even at first glance I reckon we’ve got something here. I mean—Saint Clair and the Home Secretary on the same list? And this
here
, in tiny writing …’ Harley brought the page closer to his eyes. ‘Its says “
Palatines
”, I think … 
Daubeney, Moreton, Siward
 … Siward—ain’t that Lord Malsley’s surname? You know—that Tory peer who was always in the papers during the General Strike, wanting the TUC general council publicly flogged. And here—this date circled in red:
the fifteenth of March
. That’s next Tuesday, ain’t it? Albert … Albert?’

But Pearson’s attention had been drawn to the far side of the concourse where a group of men could be seen gathering by the ticket office.

‘Harley, over there—see?’

‘Bogeys …’

‘And look—just coming out of the ticket office.’

‘
Quigg!
Quick—hold this!’

Pearson took the address book as Harley searched in his inside pocket.

‘
Shit!
Lend us yer notebook, come on!’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Pearson, handing over his notebook with a stub of pencil poked into the spine.

‘I’m copying it,’ said Harley, now frantically scribbling as Pearson held out the coded list. ‘In case Quigg has it off us.’

‘Why don’t you just tear the page out?’

‘Because, Detective Constable, it’s evidence, and more valuable to us if we can demonstrate without doubt that it was in Freddie Daubeney’s address book. Now be quiet, and keep still, won’t yer?’

As Harley wrote, Pearson looked over his shoulder, towards the side entrance to the station by Platform One.

‘Christ, Harley! There’s another lot—behind you! It’s Webbe.’

‘Bugger me! They’re mob-handed.’

He looked over to Platform Three where Harper’s train was being made ready to leave.

‘Let’s hope the lad gets away alright.’

Harley then tore the half-finished copy from Pearson’s notebook and folded it up to hide inside his sock.

‘Listen, you take the address book—they’re less likely to search you. I’ll keep hold of the mask—we know what it looks like now, it’ll be no great shakes if we lose it. I’ll try to convince them it was all we got. Mind you—they’ve gotta catch us first. Come on!
Time to scarper!
’

***

As soon as they left the station Harley and Pearson were engulfed in the thick greasy fog, reducing the visibility to a few feet in front of their faces.

‘Christ, Harley! We’re not going to get far in this, are we?’

‘We don’t have to get far, do we?’ said Harley, lowering his voice. ‘We just have to keep out of their way. Which shouldn’t be too difficult in this—as long as you keep your voice down.’ He pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. ‘You got one? … Good. Tie it over your nose and mouth—it’s worse here because of the trains; this stuff’ll rot your lungs if you’re not careful.’

Harley strode off along the pavement, quickly fading into a smudged outline in the gloom.

Pearson finished tying his makeshift mask and ran after his partner, grabbing him by the sleeve.

‘What is it? Are they here?’ hissed Harley.

‘No. But slow down! Remember—I don’t know my way around. I get lost in this bloody city in broad daylight, let alone in this muck.’

‘Well, stay close then! … I’m pretty sure there’s a tram stop up here somewhere; they’re about the only things to keep running in the smog.’

But after fifty yards or so of faltering progress Harley was beginning to doubt his instincts.

‘I could have sworn there was a stop up here. Trouble is you lose all your bearings …’

He stood for a moment, thinking, and drumming his fingers against the papier mâché of the Green Man mask. He then turned ninety degrees and started off again.

‘Harley—aren’t we walking into the road? Look, this is the kerb here.’

‘That’s just what I wanna do—I’m looking for the tramlines,’ said Harley crouching down to peer at the wet road surface. ‘Here we go—bingo! Now all we have to do is follow them in the right direction; sooner or later we’re bound to hit a tram.’

‘More likely it’ll hit us! Are you out of your mind? This is suicide!’

‘Don’t be so milky. They run at a snail’s pace in this kind of weather; and they ring the bell constantly so that you know they’re coming. You’ll be as safe as ’ouses. You just concentrate on keeping that book safe.’

‘Christ! I hope you know what you’re doing, Harley.’

‘Keep a couple of steps behind me if you’re that worried.’

‘Don’t you worry—I bloody well intend to!’

With the tramlines as a guide they were able to pick up the pace a little. But even though it was now simply a case of keeping to a straight line and following Harley’s slightly blurred outline, Pearson still found it disconcerting to be wandering through such an uncanny landscape, where lampposts and parked cars loomed out of the gloom, held their shape for a few paces and then dissolved back into the grimy haze.

Every now and again a stray sound managed to penetrate the muffling effect of the smog—a distant shout, or the warning toot of a vehicle’s horn. But it was impossible to tell which direction it originated from.

Now Pearson realized that the fuzzy outline of buildings on the left and right had disappeared, and for a moment it appeared they had wandered into some uninhabited wilderness.

Beginning to feel a little panicky he left the safety of the tramlines to trace the kerb of the pavement—and was soon reassured by discovering that they had in fact merely arrived at a crossroads. But Pearson’s relief was short-lived as he turned to find that his partner was now receding into the mist ahead of him. Making his way back to the rails he set off at a jogging pace, coughing back the sulphurous lungfuls of air.

The carter’s horse seemed to materialise from nowhere, its huge neck and head taking on a reptilian, prehistoric outline in the turbid air. Pearson just managed to swerve away from its muscled flank, slipping on the slimy cobbles and falling painfully onto his side. The metalled front wheel of the wagon rolled on past, missing his outstretched fingers by a mere inch or so. He cursed and scrambled across the road to a safe distance, watching as the vehicle trundled on by, the creak of its timber giving it the air of a ghost ship as it disappeared back into the mist.

Disorientated—and with his hip throbbing painfully from the fall—Pearson struggled to his feet and attempted to get his bearings.

‘Harley!’ he shouted, realizing he’d completely lost sight of his partner this time. ‘
Wait up!
’

He took a few steps in the direction he thought they’d been travelling, but was dismayed to see there were no tramlines beneath his feet. He retraced his steps as best he could, chose a slightly different angle and ventured out again, this time managing to find the curved pavement of the crossroads, realizing he must have wandered into the intersecting street. He regained the tramlines and set off in what he hoped was the correct direction.

‘Harley! … 
Harley!
’

There was still no reply from the private detective, so Pearson increased his pace to a quick march, keeping his eyes peeled for any further obstacles that might appear from the gloom.

After a minute or so with still no sign of Harley the policeman stopped to assess the situation.
Surely he should have caught up by now? In his confusion had he chosen the wrong way? Was he now travelling back in the opposite direction?

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Pearson span on his heels to come face to face with the unearthly features of the Green Man mask, the wispy tendrils of yellow-green smog adding to the spectral effect.

‘
Harley!
Jesus Christ, man! This is no time for practical jokes! … I was nearly crushed under the wheels of a cart back there, you know! Why the hell didn’t you wait for me? You must have heard me calling … Harley! I’m bloody talking to you!
Harley?
’

By the time he’d caught sight of the cosh, Pearson had finally realized that the masked man that stood before him was a good few inches shorter than George Harley, and was dressed in a completely different outfit. But of course, by then—as the leather-clad metal bar hammered into his temple—it was too late.

***

Having finally realized that he’d lost sight of Pearson, Harley stood in the thick smog, tipped his hat back, and swore under his breath.

‘Fucking farmer’s boy! Where the bloody hell has he got to now?’

He began to slowly retrace his steps, scanning left and right for any signs of the missing policeman.

It was just as he’d caught sight of the vague outline of something slumped on the road ahead of him that he heard the first clang of the tram.

‘Pearson—is that you? Albert—
Albert!
Are you alright?’

He dropped quickly to place his hand on the cold rail, feeling the tremor of the tram. But looking back over his shoulder there was as yet no obvious sign of its approach.

A few steps forwards confirmed the identity of the collapsed figure. Harley stopped and slipped on his brass knuckles. Behind him the tram bell clanged again, closer now—close enough to hear the grind of the wheels and the faint electric buzz of the pantograph.

‘Albert, get up son! Come on, don’t muck about!’

Harley moved forward with his fists raised, continually checking all around him for any indication of an ambush. But when he got close enough to see the dark blood pooling on the cobbles under the policeman’s head he immediately lowered his guard and rushed to check whether Pearson was still breathing.

Just as he crouched and laid a hand on the policeman’s throat the tram breached the swirling waves of smog like a leviathan from the deep, plunging through the yellow-green curtain, screeching its way towards them. The overhead wire arced and fizzed noisily, filling the damp air with the reek of ozone.

Harley grabbed Pearson by the lapels and began to haul him towards the pavement; but the policeman’s heel got caught in the tramline and he slipped on the oily surface, stumbling back onto the wet cobbles. He was up again in an instant, grabbing hold of Pearson’s arm this time and pulling with all his might.

And then the tram was upon them.

For a few seconds thirty tons of steel, wood and glass thundered past in stark clarity … and then it was gone, swallowed whole again by the smog.

‘What was that?’ said Pearson, coming to and struggling to a sitting position. The blood flowed steadily down his face, soaking into the handkerchief around his mouth and nose.

‘Bloody hell, Pearson! I thought you were a gonna!’ said Harley, removing his own handkerchief and using it to staunch the blood. ‘What happened to you?’

‘It was the Green Man …’

‘
What?
 … Alright now, you take it easy, son. You’re probably concussed.’

‘No—listen! I mean it. It was someone wearing a Green Man mask.’ Pearson placed a tentative hand to his temple, taking the bloodied handkerchief from Harley. ‘He gave me a clump with a blackjack. One blow—I was out like a light. How does it look?’

‘It’s a right old mess—claret everywhere. Probably needs a few stitches … Hold on! Have you still got the book?’

Pearson patted his breast pocket with his free hand then looked at Harley and shook his head.

‘Oh great!’ said Harley. ‘That’s just sodding dandy, that is!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

General Swales walked into his office at Scotland Yard to find Harley and Pearson already waiting for him. The bruising around Harley’s eye had now turned a rather intriguing combination of purple and yellow, and Pearson’s head wound was bound tightly with wadding and bandage.

‘My God! Look at the pair of you—it looks like a bally Casualty Clearing Station in here.’

‘We’ve been getting our ’ands dirty, FW. It’s not all about the deskwork, you know.’

‘Yes, so I see …’ The General waved the piece of paper he was holding at the private detective. ‘Know what this is, Harley?’

‘Go on …’

‘It’s a formal complaint—from Earl Daubeney’s private secretary.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Apparently you’ve been loitering around Belgrave Square, harassing his domestic staff.’

Harley shook his head slowly and reached for a Gold Flake.

‘
Harassing his domestic staff
—priceless!’

Pearson sat forward in his chair.

‘I’d have to agree with Harley here, sir. It was actually me that spoke with the butler, and I certainly wasn’t harassing anyone—merely trying to secure an interview with Lord Daubeney.’

‘Well, Detective Constable, the next time you feel the need to interview a member of the nobility, you’ll arrange it through my office—is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’

Harley tutted, snorting out two streams of smoke through his nostrils.

‘Something to add, Harley? I don’t think you quite understand just how influential Lord Daubeney is. He’s the former Viceroy of India, for God’s sake! You can’t just go banging his door down as though he were some Whitechapel costermonger; this is a man who regularly plays host to Royal shooting parties!’

Swales took to his seat behind his desk with a sigh.

‘Listen, George … what I’m trying to say is that the Daubeneys are an extremely old and important family. I believe they can trace a direct line back to the court of William the Conqueror.’

‘Funny,’ said Harley, looking unimpressed. ‘I thought we were all from extremely old families … only most of us don’t have Norman gangsters as our ancestors.’

‘Oh, don’t be so damn bolshie, Harley! You know exactly what I mean. I’ve just spent the last half hour getting a bollocking from the Home Secretary over your little shenanigans in Belgravia. Didn’t I tell you to tread carefully? The next time you even start to contemplate approaching Earl Daubeney you come to see me first! Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘DC Pearson?’

‘Absolutely, sir!’

‘Alright, we’ll say no more about it … Now, tell me about this damned notebook that you’ve managed to lose.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Pearson, looking to Harley for a little moral support, ‘I was assaulted with a metal cosh.’

‘The book, Pearson! What was in the book?’

Harley took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to the General.

‘Some of that I managed to copy at the time, the rest I’ve added from memory … there’s still a lot missing though.’ He took the Green Man mask from a bag and placed it on Swales’ desk. ‘And there was this as well.’

The General handled the mask, peering through its haunted, leaf-engulfed eyes for a moment before placing it back on the desk. He turned back to the piece of paper.

‘What’s this at the top here—
The Verdoy
?’

‘It’s from the French,
verdoyer
—to become green. It’s a term from heraldry. Apparently it describes a border charged with leaves or fruit.’

‘Like this mask?’

‘Yeah, that’s probably no coincidence. But it’s a pretty obscure term—I haven’t quite made my mind up yet about it.’

‘And the date—
the fifteenth of March?
’

‘That was on the page as well, circled in red.’

‘Next Tuesday … and the corresponding page in the diary? Were there any appointments arranged for the fifteenth?’

‘We didn’t have time to check that.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

Swales now studied the piece of paper, on which he found the following:

MARCH 15
^TH

THE VERDOY

PALATINES

Daubeney

Moreton

Siward

‘The names on the right are my guesses at the initials,’ said Harley. ‘As I say, there was a lot more on the actual list.’

‘Only three of these codenames—or whatever they are.
Lion Passant, Kot Bayun
, and
Rye Wolf
.’

‘It’s all I had time to copy. There was one for each set of initials on the original list.’

‘
Lion passant
—another heraldic term, I believe?’

Harley nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s a lion walking forward with one paw raised—like on the English standard.’

‘And how did you arrive at these particular individuals as matches for the initials, Harley?’

‘Educated guess.’

‘Hmm … Saint Clair and Box-Hartnell—yes, I can see that; but the others are mere supposition, surely?’

‘Maybe, but it’s a start.’

‘The Cossack, Kosevich—why is he down twice?’

‘Because,
CK, K
—either of them could be him, couldn’t they? As I say, it’s early days yet; I’ve only had a few hours to work on it.’

‘By the way, Harley—you were right about Kosevich surviving the October Revolution, and the subsequent Russian civil war. I had the archive office dig out what we have on him. There’s an intelligence report that has him in Kronstadt in nineteen-twenty-three.’

‘I suppose we helped him get out, then, did we?’

‘I can’t go into details, I’m afraid … you know yourself that the White Army had significant support from the Allied Nations.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. You do know this bloke Kosevich was a real monster, don’t you? Personally responsible for beheading defenceless peasants in the Kiev pogroms—had ’em kneel down in the mud whilst their families looked on.’

‘And if your theory is correct, George, all that’s left of him is five fingers and a thumb in a mortuary ice box—so maybe he got his comeuppance, eh? Either way this is neither the time nor the place to discuss British foreign policy in the nineteen-twenties. Now, what’s this here—
Kot Bayun
, what is that exactly?’

‘Yeah—I’d be impressed if you knew what that was. It took me a while, but eventually I found a reference to it in one of Uncle Blake’s folklore encyclopaedias. Kot Bayun—the storytelling cat. It’s from a Russian fairy tale: a wild talking cat who charms travellers with its voice and gobbles them up if they can’t resist.’

‘Russian, eh? Well, granted, that could be Kosevich I suppose … And this
Rye Wolf
?’

‘I’m not sure—but it rings a bell somewhere …’ Harley tapped his head. ‘I’m working on it.’

Pearson flicked open his notebook.

‘Harley, didn’t you say that Kosevich was known as the Wolf of Kiev.’

‘Yeah, I know, that’s why I have it down as a possible for him. But I don’t really think it’s a fit—this is
rye
wolf … it’s in there somewhere. It’ll come to me.’

Swales returned to the list.

‘Hmm … 
Palatines … Siward …
’

‘Lord Malsley, I reckon.’

‘Yes, possibly; and Mr. Justice Moreton, perhaps?’

‘A judge?’

‘Well, there is a High Court judge of that name—he belongs to my club, as a matter of fact.’

Swales now dropped the sheet of paper on his desk and began to fill his saxophone pipe.

‘Alright, Harley. So we have a page in Viscount Chantry’s address book—written in the same hand as the rest of the entries, I take it?’

‘Yup.’

‘Alright, then. A partial list of initials that
possibly
refer to a number of individuals—eminent in most cases. You’ll notice I’ve purposefully ignored your speculation regarding the last set of initials.’ He paused to light his pipe. ‘So … a list of initials with what looks like corresponding epithets or nicknames … and then these
Palatines
. Hmm … Hardly damning evidence now, is it? After all, even if your guesses are correct, it would hardly be remarkable to find references
to such individuals in Viscount Chantry’s address book—given the calibre of the social circles he moves in.’

Harley now leant forward in his chair, becoming animated.

‘But Kosevich is there, FW—
Kosevich!
The Wolf of Kiev! A murdering bloody Cossack! What’s he doing in Chantry’s address book, eh? Can you really see him sipping cocktails with Fast Freddie at some soiree in Mayfair? Or commandeering a pair of antlers and a stuffed bear as part of some Bright Young Things’ treasure hunt? The man was a psychopath! And let me just remind you that his last act on this earth was an attempt to blow up a mob of charity workers and a soup kitchen full of the poor and needy.’

‘Or maybe not.’

‘Come again?’

‘Well, have you thought of the possibility that you and Pearson were the intended victim of the blast, Harley?’

‘Rubbish!’

‘I wouldn’t be too quick to discount it … But the thing is—Kosevich
isn’t
on the list, is he? Just an initial that
might
refer to him. It’s tenuous at best.’

The private detective gave an exasperated huff and got out of his chair. He paced the floor a little and then stubbed out his cigarette in the General’s ashtray.

‘Alright, Harley, come on now—let’s have it!’ said Swales. ‘I know you’re dying to tell me your theory on what this list really is.’

Harley sat back down and pushed his hat to the back of his head.

‘The problem is, FW, it’s just a hunch, a gut feeling. There ain’t much to back it up just yet.’

‘Well let’s hear it anyway. If this date is at all significant … well, we don’t have much time, do we?’

‘Alright then. But I warn you—it’s work in progress …’ Harley removed his hat to scratch his head and gather his thoughts. Then he began. ‘Well, first of all, I’m convinced that the address book—and more importantly the list of names and codenames that it contained—was the main thing that they were so desperate to get back from those Green Fox boys—’

‘
They?
’

‘Hold yer ’orses—I’m coming to that. As I say, they were so desperate to retrieve this list that they murdered three young lads in the attempt … not to mention braining Albert, here. We now know …’ Harley looked to Pearson for a moment. ‘Well, let’s just say
we now have good reason to believe
, that the man tasked with recovering the address book was Ludovico Girardi. Mark my words, he’s no choirboy this one, FW.’

‘Yes, I’ve read your report, George—a nasty piece of work by all accounts.’

‘Well then, you can see how seriously someone is taking all this. I mean: what’s Girardi doing over here in the first place, eh? I’ll tell yer what—
Mussolini and the BBF
, that’s what. I reckon that Il Duce has had his hand on the tiller of Saint Clair’s flagship of British Fascism for some time now, maybe even from the start. If you’ve read that report you’ll know that the day that Pearson was supposedly harassing Daubeney’s butler we saw Girardi and his sidekick going in for a private chinwag with his Lordship.’

Harley waited for a reaction from Swales, but the General remained puffing pensively on his pipe.

‘So, come on then, Harley!’ said Pearson, anxious now to hear the private detective’s explanation. ‘What
is
the list?’

‘What is it? For my money I reckon it’s a crib sheet for Viscount Chantry—to help him learn the codenames for the members of the Verdoy … of which his old man is probably an executive member. And for Fast Freddie it’s yet another job that the old man has landed him that he’s managed to bugger up—so much so that this time he’s been sent into exile in Paris.’

‘I might be being stupid here,’ continued Pearson, ‘but what is this
Verdoy?
’

‘Alright … Well, I’ll admit this is where it gets to be pure guesswork. You see I think the Verdoy are an elite group of Fascist sympathisers, some of the most powerful members of British society. But these individuals aren’t just pledging their vote in the next election, oh no! You see, I reckon they’re prepared to help usher in Saint Clair and the BBF by any means possible. And if Benito Mussolini is the role model then I also think it’s highly likely that Saint Clair will try to take that power by force. After all, we know his views on the democratic process.’

‘But what about the codenames, the mask?’

‘Think about it, Albert—if you were that high up in the food chain would you really want to gamble everything on such a risky plot? What if it all goes wrong? You end up losing everything. Your name’s mud by association; shamed and disgraced. And you’ll probably end of doing up a bit of time an’ all, for treason or whatever. So, when the Verdoy meet they do so
incognito
. They wear the masks and use their codenames. Oh sure, you might have an idea that the bloke next to you is the Home Secretary—but you can’t say for sure, you couldn’t testify that it was him. And remember—that list had a least another ten names on it that we didn’t have time to copy.’