Reading sample Death in the Last Reel

One

An hour into the new year, the dances slowed.

Dr Margaret Demeray waltzed in Fox’s arms, eyes closed and head against his shoulder, glad that he had been able to come to the ball as if he were an ordinary man; forgetting for a few hours that he was an intelligence agent with two missions to complete.

They spun and whirled… then Fox’s embrace loosened and they stopped, an island in a sea of dancers.

Margaret raised her head, but Fox wasn’t looking at her but across the ballroom.

His friend and colleague Charles Craven was beckoning, face solemn.

‘I think I might need to leave.’ Fox kissed Margaret lightly then led her across the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Do you think they’ve traced George Gardstein’s accomplices?’

‘With any luck. We can’t have murdering anarchists like them running loose. The other thing can wait… I hope.’

He stopped speaking as they reached Charles.

‘Hare’s on the telephone,’ he said. ‘He’s given me my orders, now he wants to give you yours.’

‘Very well.’ Fox kissed Margaret again and went to the foyer.

Charles contemplated Margaret. ‘Try not to fret.’

‘I can’t help worrying every time he disappears. Or you.’

‘It’s part of our job, Margaret. You know that. If I hadn’t had to disappear last summer, Fox might not have needed to make acquaintance with you.’

‘And even then he nearly…’

Charles squeezed her hand. ‘It’s our job.’

‘Is it Gardstein’s men or—’

‘Gardstein’s common knowledge.’ Charles frowned. ‘You shouldn’t know about any “or”.’

Fox had returned. He held her close briefly. ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Take care,’ she whispered, the words feeble. ‘They gunned down three policemen two weeks ago. They won’t stop at—’

‘We’ve got the upper hand this time,’ Fox whispered back.‘You’ll know when we’re successful.’ Then he let her go, kissed her once more and left.

But after that Margaret heard nothing, and the only news reported was that an unnamed man had been murdered and mutilated and left on Clapham Common a few hours after that hurried goodbye.

The following day, Margaret went to work at St Julia’s Hospital, her heart full of dread, struggling with the newspaper to find the latest information.

People bumped into her, making the pages slip in her hands. Oblivious to their grumbling, Margaret found an article buried on page eleven. She skipped the first lines which repeated what she already knew to read the latest information.

Margaret held her breath. Connected how? An informer, a policeman, an undercover agent killed by someone they were trying to arrest? Please God don’t let it be Fox or Charles. She stepped out of the flow and manhandled the paper into submission.

Margaret breathed out. Sad and shocking as it was, the victim was no one she knew. Folding the paper, she hurried up the steps into the mortuary wing. But it didn’t stop the fear. Where are you Fox?

‘Happy New Year, doctor,’ said the desk clerk cheerfully.

‘Happy New year to you too, Mr Holness. Are there any messages for me?’

‘Only that Dr Jordan wants to see you and Mr Hardisty’s sent word that he’ll be little late.’ The clerk winked. ‘Medical students eh, doctor? They never know when to stop celebrating.’

Margaret rolled her eyes a little. ‘I hope he’ll be in a fit state to assist me later.’

The clerk chuckled. ‘Shall I have some coffee ordered when he arrives?’

 ‘Good idea. And please let me know if anyone else wants me. I’ll be in Dr Jordan’s office.’

‘Of course.’

Dr Jordan rose from his desk as she entered and shook hands. ‘Happy New Year my dear. It’s nice to see someone early and sober.’

‘I hear Algie’s suffering.’

‘Young men were ever thus,’ said Dr Jordan with a grin. ‘But beer aside, he’s a credit to your tutelage.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘In consequence, I have something to discuss, but before I forget, Matron asked if you’d speak with Mrs Balodis. The tuberculosis is confirmed, so she’ll go to Frimley Sanatorium this morning. At least she can spend her last few weeks in something approaching comfort.’

‘That poor woman.’ Mrs Balodis was a fighter; barely over forty-five, sharp and witty. But she’d left it too long to have a persistent cough diagnosed. ‘Why does she want me?’

Dr Jordan picked up a note and squinted. ‘To explain matters to her grown up children. They live in… Myrdle Street.’ He pulled a face. ‘Whitechapel’s not the best place to visit just now. You’d be wise to have someone escort you.’

‘Of course,’ said Margaret, determined to do nothing of the sort. ‘What else did you want to discuss?’

‘Ah yes,’ Dr Jordan settled more comfortably in his chair, a broad smile on his face. ‘Your work. Not simply your pathology, but your teaching. All your students do well and Algie has been working under your close supervision for nearly two years and is far ahead of his peers. I’ve convinced the board to credit you instead of me for his training in post-mortems.’

‘I appreciate that very much. Didn’t anyone complain about my helping with Fox… I mean Special Branch on occasion?’

‘Superintendent Fox’s superior explained all that to the chairman some time ago,’ said Dr Jordan. ‘It just proves your worth.’ He leaned forward. ‘But this is my news: I’ll be bringing you to board meetings. I recommend a cushion and some deep breathing exercises, and a nice brick wall to bang your head against afterwards, but it’s all part of the job.’

‘What job?’

‘Mine, when I retire. St Julia's may be the first London hospital to have a woman as senior pathologist. You’re suitable in every way.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ Margaret restrained herself from rushing to hug him. ‘Although I hope you’re not planning on retiring soon.’

Dr Jordan removed his glasses and polished them. ‘I’m delighted you’re keen. Now then, what shall we find to tax Algie’s brain when he arrives?’

The morning allowed little time to think about anything but work, but at lunchtime Margaret sat in the café across the road from the mortuary wing with a later edition of the paper. The murdered Russian wasn’t mentioned but Gardstein’s gang was.

Bombs.

Fox didn’t always tell her details of his missions, but whether or not Charles approved of her knowing, she knew that apart from hunting down Gardstein’s accomplices, he and Charles were working on something else.

Intelligence received indicated a bomb attack on London planned for spring. Exactly where, how and by whom was unclear. Fox’s information pointed at Germans, while Charles’s Whitechapel contacts hinted at Russians or Latvians. But the name of the man given by both informants was the same: Anderson. Charles suspected he was a small time criminal after someone else’s turf rather than an anarchist. Fox remained convinced Anderson was part of the war machine. Until they could establish who Anderson was and what he was planning, they wouldn’t know. And if there were two men with the same name and they could apprehend one of them, they could seek the other together.

There was nothing Margaret could do by worrying. Paying her bill, she returned to the mortuary wing prepared to bury herself in work. In the laboratory, Algie was looking down on a covered body. That much wasn’t surprising.

The young police constable standing with his back to the door, however, was.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Margaret.

The policeman looked wary. There was something familiar about his face, though not his demeanour.

‘Remember me?’ he said. ‘Constable Harris.’

Margaret contemplated him. He brought to mind stifling summer heat, flies, the smell of pig and unspecified litter, a shadowed courtyard behind a rough public house and an expression of mocking disdain. ‘Lemon Street last June. Are you waiting for a proper doctor again?’

Constable Harris ran a finger round his collar and went scarlet. ‘Er…’

Algie frowned. ‘He insisted this corpse was brought to St J’s. He asked for you especially.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes madam, I mean doctor,’ said Constable Harris. ‘I’ve wanted to say sorry for some time, but wasn’t sure how.’

‘Isn’t being able to write a prerequisite to joining the police?’

‘Yeah, but I wanted to bring you something to show I was sorry. A murder victim, that is. Only it’s taken this long to get anyone to agree to it coming her rather than St Barts or St Mary’s.’

Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘And to think some women get flowers. All right, apology accepted. What changed your mind?’

‘When I thought about it afterwards,’ said Constable Harris, ‘I realised I’d never seen what I called the “proper” doctor take as much care as you did to work out what killed that poor cove. I’d like to learn from you, so when we come across an unexpected death’ – he waved a hand at the corpse – ‘maybe I’d have more idea if it was an accident or deliberate.’

‘Very well.’ Margaret donned her rubber gloves and reached for the sheet. ‘It’s a grim process if you’re not used to it.’

‘I know,’ said Constable Harris. ‘So small steps, hey?’ He pulled a face.

‘I’m glad you’ve brought the body here.’

Constable Harris shrugged. ‘The sarge hopes I’m not wasting time. We’re up to our ears, what with trying to find Gardstein’s gang.’ His face grew grim and his hands clenched.

Margaret paused, filled with pity. ‘I suppose you knew the victims.’

‘Yeah. Coppers don’t deserve to die doing their duty. Anyway—’ Constable Harris closed his eyes, took a breath, and continued in a calmer voice. ‘What do you reckon to this bloke?’ He nodded at the covered corpse.

A sudden fear made Margaret’s heart thump and she told herself to be rational. The form under the sheet was the wrong build entirely for Fox or Charles. ‘Go on.’

‘This is Mr Green. He was found drowned in the bath.’

‘It happens.’

‘I’m not convinced. The neighbours heard him and his missus arguing last night. And I’ve seen people drug out the river straight after drowning, and Mr Green seemed deader somehow. I found a sodden apron with a bit of blood on it shoved in a neighbour’s ashcan. The neighbour swears it’s Mrs Green’s.’

‘Let’s see,’ said Margaret, pulling back the cover to reveal a short, plump man in his forties. There was bruising on the inside of his arms and a slight cut on one.

‘I think that’s what he’d have got from the edges of the bath if he was trying to get a hold,’ said Constable Harris. ‘There’s a sharp bit on the left side of the bath where the enamel’s chipped.’

‘There seems to be more bruising on his chest,’ said Margaret. ‘Why do men have to be so hairy?’

‘Yes. I mean, I dunno.’

Algie turned the body over. The back was dark with blood which had settled internally, suggesting the man had been dead for several hours. Despite the lividity and the thickness of his hair, Margaret was sure there were bruises on the back of Mr Green’s skull.

She lifted his hands. ‘Look at this. The nails of the thumbs and little fingers are clean, but under the others there are fragments of what look like skin and blood. If I were you, I’d check the wife’s forearms.’

‘To look for scratches where the poor wretch tried to fight her off?’

‘Deep ones.’

‘Blimey.’ Constable Harris swallowed and looked at Algie. ‘It’s enough to put a man off matrimony, ain’t it?’

A dreamy expression crossed Algie’s face. ‘My girl would never drown me.’

Margaret rolled her eyes. ‘No, but I might if you don’t concentrate.’ She smiled at Constable Harris. ‘After the post-mortem, we’ll have a better idea of whether this might have been deliberate. But…’

‘But in the meantime, check Mrs Green’s forearms before she “accidentally” burns them on the stove or something,’ said Constable Harris.

‘If she’s done this once, she could do it again.’

‘Righto, I’ll go and see. Let me know what you find.’ He donned his helmet and left the laboratory.

Four hours later, Margaret walked towards the tube station. Before going home, she wanted to visit Wesdon Street police station and give Constable Harris the results of the post mortem, then after that she’d go to speak with Mrs Balodis’s children. But outside in the dreary January dark, her skin prickled.

Away from the street lights, shadows moved, periodically spotted with the red lights of watchers’ cigarettes. Margaret felt very alone. If it were like this nearer to central London, what would it be like further east? After a brief hesitation, she returned to the mortuary wing and telephoned the police station.

The call was answered almost immediately, the desk sergeant audibly breathing in relief when Margaret gave her name. The usual noises in the background of a police station - arguing, shouting prisoners - seemed muffled, subdued.

‘Dr Demeray?’ said Constable Harris a few moments later. ‘Is this about the post mortem?’

‘Yes. I was going to bring the results as I passed through, but—’

‘Passed through? Where to?’

‘Myrdle Street. I er… I actually wondered if you might be able to come with me and I can explain the post mortem in more detail.’

Constable Harris grunted. ‘Not Whitechapel. Not tonight.’

‘Never mind. I’ll go alone.’

‘You can’t!’ The force of his response startled her. ‘I mean - sorry doctor. I mean what’s so important you’re thinking of going there after dark?’

‘A dying woman’s asked me to speak with her children.’

‘How long’s she got?’

‘Weeks. But—’

‘Little kids?’

‘Grown up. But—’

‘Please take me seriously, doctor. I can’t explain, but tonight is not the night.’

Margaret blinked. Even through the wire she could sense a prickliness, an anticipation - it was what sparked from Fox when a hunt was nearing its end.

Constable Harris sniffed. ‘Er … was I right about Mr Green?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘Good night, Dr Demeray. Best go home where you’re safe. Take a cab. If you’ve got to come to Whitechapel, do it in daylight.’ He added in a whisper, ‘Not before the weekend. Goodbye.’

Margaret replaced the receiver and stood at the desk, anxiety prickling through her senses. She hadn’t noticed the telegram boy standing along side her.

‘It’s for you, doctor,’ said the clerk.

She handed him the telephone and took the telegram.

God, prayers, love? They weren’t words Fox used lightly. If it hadn’t been for the reference to tingling, Margaret would have thought he was playing a joke.

But the truth was that not only was her sixth sense troubling her, but down the telephone, she’d heard Constable Harris’s voice tremble. Now Margaret was trembling too and more than ever, she wondered where Fox was and what he was facing. And there was nothing she could do to find out.

Two

On Wednesday morning, there was still no word from Fox. Margaret stayed in her Bayswater flat as late as she could and then spent her journey looking out for two of Fox’s colleagues: Bert who sometimes chauffeured him, or Pigeon who brought messages by motorcycle. One or other of them often let her know that Fox was safe without necessarily addressing her directly. Neither were to be seen anywhere.

When Margaret finally emerged from the tube station near the hospital, it was to an atmosphere of tension. Men were whispering on corners.

‘Where have all the coppers gone?’

‘Reckon it’s true?’

‘Shall we go and see?’

‘How many gonna die this time?’

‘They’re anarchists. What if they use bombs?’

She rushed to St Julia’s, trying to shake the last words from her mind. It was ten to eight. The desk clerk was on the telephone, his face grim. ‘Yes … yes … understood… I’ll tell them.’

‘What’s happening?’ asked Margaret as he replaced the receiver. Algie, who had entered just behind her, stopped at her side.

‘We’re on alert for casualties, doctor,’ said the clerk. ‘If the London and St Mary’s can’t manage, we’re next on the list. The main desk’s asked me to tell all doctors to be ready in case we’re needed to help.’

‘Casualties?’ Margaret tried to keep her voice steady.

‘There aren’t any yet that I know of,’ said the clerk. ‘But the police have that Gardstein’s accomplices under siege in Sidney Street.’

‘That’s less than two miles away!’ Algie cried.

Surely Fox and Charles aren’t there? ‘I’ll tell Dr Jordan,’ said Margaret, hoping her voice sounded calmer than she felt. ‘Come along, Algie. Nothing’s happened yet and we’ve work to do.’

The orderly brought more news at nine. ‘Word is there’s police all over. Coppers, detectives, the whole shebang. The whole area’s blocked off. Gawd, I hope they’re armed properly. Them anarchists have semi-automatics.’

 By eleven, the clerk asked them to come outside. Over the noises of the city came distant pops and rattles. ‘The Scots Guard has gone in. Everyone’s firing at everyone else from either end of the street,’ he said. ‘Place is swarming with onlookers. Everyone’s going for a look-see.’ He glanced sideways at Margaret hopefully.

‘Like tourists?’ growled Algie, voicing Margaret’s thoughts. ‘If the hospitals have to waste time treating one of them instead of those trying to do their duty…’

‘Oh yes, yes, of course. Very irresponsible.’ The clerk heaved a sigh before going back indoors.

Margaret returned to work and tried to concentrate until it was time to collect her lunch from the café across the road. The gunfire seemed to have paused and the news was garbled.

‘They’ve set fire to the building,’ said a customer at the counter.

‘Who?’

‘Dunno. But you can see the smoke.’

Everyone peered out of the doorway and windows. To the east, above hundreds of spewing chimneys, the sky seemed a little thicker, a little more noxious.

‘And that flaming Churchill’s there.’

‘Mr Churchill,’ admonished a man near the window. ‘He’s the Home Secretary.’

‘Huh,’ said the other customer. ‘He’s to blame for all them foreign anarchists, ain’t he? “Ooo let ’em in?” That’s what they’re shouting.’

‘Who?’

‘Them what’s watching. Hurry up with that sandwich, will yer? I wanna go join in.’

 Just after three p.m. the orderly came in, looking grim. ‘Here’s the latest. They took in a Maxim and—’

‘What?’ said Margaret, feeling the blood drain from her face. She imagined the machine gun rattling off rounds in that narrow street, bullets ricocheting off the overcrowded buildings and the guilty and innocent: police, soldiers, adults, children, Fox, Charles mown down in fragments of brick and mortar. She tensed. ‘How many are hurt? When are they coming?’

‘They ain’t,’ said the orderly. ‘It was never used. The gunmen are dead and St J’s has been stood down.’ He shook his head. ‘But the building’s still on fire and a wall collapsed on a bunch of firemen. They’ve been taken to the London. If anyone dies, then the gang’s as good as murdered him.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘What a day. It feels like this whole place has been on tenterhooks. I swear even them on their last legs on the wards haven’t felt able to die. I feel like a stiff drink and I weren’t even there.’

The clerk had slipped into the room. ‘We’ll get to see it for ourselves soon.’

‘See what?’ said Algie.

‘The siege. There were people filming it for the newsreel, so it’ll be in the cinema. Wonders of modern technology, eh? Anyway, telegram for you, Dr Demeray. The lad says it’s urgent.’

Margaret tried not to run to the front desk. Her hand shook as she took the envelope and scanned the contents without reading them, seeking the signature first. It was from Bert.

Read it, she told herself.

‘Any reply, madam?’ said the telegram boy.

‘Yes, please.’ She scrawled Thanks on the back of the telegram, handed over the fee, then said to the clerk: ‘Mr Holness, if I give you the money, would you go to the baker’s and buy a selection of cakes? I think we all need them.’

On Thursday, Margaret sat in the cinema, holding hands with Fox. The newsreel of the events in Sidney Street was being shown again. She’d seen it twice before. Watching it the first time with her close friend Phoebe and the second with her older sister Katherine, Margaret had squinted at the men she thought were plain-clothes officers to see if any of them were Fox or Charles and failed. Even the third time, she still couldn’t see them.

‘You’ll look till your eyes pop and won’t spot Charles and me in that crowd,’ he whispered.

‘Were people really jeering Mr Churchill?’

‘They were certainly jeering him in my part of the crowd. Another faction was cheering. Whether it was to show support for his policies or to cause trouble is anyone’s guess.’

‘Shhh,’ said the person behind them.

‘Let’s go,’ said Fox. ‘I’m tired of watching this and I’m hungry.’

He stood, offered her his arm and they made their way to the aisle, annoying everyone in their vicinity, then left the cinema and drove to the hotel where Fox lived.

It wasn’t until the end of their meal, that Margaret told him about Mr Green and Mrs Balodis. She gabbled through her planned visit to the police station, hoping that Fox wouldn’t work out that she’d nearly gone after dark. But it was a failed hope.

‘I sometimes wonder if you leave your brains in a jar,’ he said. ‘And you think you have the right to worry about me. Never mind: even if you’d forgone the police station, you’d have been turned back before you got much further.’

‘I’ve worked that out since.’

Fox grinned at her over his wine glass. ‘Now the area’s clear, you can visit the Balodis offspring tomorrow lunchtime like a sensible woman.’

‘Hardly,’ said Margaret. ‘They both have jobs. That was the whole point of going in the evening. It’ll have to wait till Sunday.’

She waited for him to offer to go with her, but the waiter had brought the brandy and while it was poured, Fox stared out into the blackness beyond the windows. The hotel only ran to an orchestra at weekends, so someone had put a recording of a schottische on a gramophone. Fox’s fingers tapped his glass to the rhythm. He still seemed on edge.

‘You say Charles didn’t come back with you,’ said Margaret. ‘Why not?’

‘He’s following a different lead,’ said Fox. ‘I’m certain that Anderson will keep away from the anarchists for now and my part of the investigation is effectively digging through paperwork.’ He pulled a face. ‘But just in case he doesn’t, Charles is deep in among the locals. At the moment a lot of them are keen to distance themselves from Gardstein, and they’re more likely to talk to Charles as he knows several languages.’

‘So do you.’

‘I don’t know Russian, Polish, Hebrew and Yiddish anywhere near as well as someone whose parents came from Lemberg and changed their name in the sixties.’

‘I always forget that about Charles.’

‘Because he wants you to,’ said Fox. ‘You know him as a suburban solicitor’s son with journalistic ambitions. That’s partly who he is and partly his cover. But he can  just as easily play the newly arrived immigrant and merge into the background in the East End and people would say “I never knew he was English born and bred”.’ Fox fiddled with his glass and cleared his throat. Three other couples were spinning elegantly to the music. ‘Let’s dance.’

He led her onto the floor and drew her into his arms. To her surprise, he was trembling. She could feel his heart thudding against hers. ‘Are you worried about Charles?’ she asked.

‘What?’ said Fox. ‘Oh. A little.’

‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Margaret squeezed his shoulder. ‘He’ll come back a bit grubbier than before, just like you do.’

‘Of course,’ said Fox, pulling her closer still. ‘It’s a tricky job, though. It’s why he thinks he should stay single.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Margaret.

‘He thinks, given our work, that a wife would have to put up with absences, silences, possible threats and danger, and it’s not fair.’

‘Then he ought to ask the potential wife if she’s prepared to take the risk.’

‘Would you be?’

‘What?’ Margaret leaned back and looked up into his face. His usual nonchalance was gone. His expression was blank, but it was a wary blankness.

‘I’m so in love with you,’ he said. ‘Even though you thought about going to Whitechapel in pitch darkness when there’s a criminal gang running loose.’ A grin flickered across his face then faded. ‘But I’m a man who might lead danger to your door, and that terrifies me.’

‘You brought danger to my door last summer and I survived.’

‘I’m being serious. I can’t always tell you where I’m going or where I’ve been and one day… One day Bert may come and tell you that I’m never coming back.’

‘Fox, whatever are you talking about? I’ve known all this since last June.’

‘Then let’s get married.’ His tone was casual, but she realised they’d stopped dancing and her mouth had fallen open.

Fox looked into her eyes, his face full of doubt. ‘Doesn’t it appeal?’

‘More than you can imagine,’ she said.

‘Damn,’ said Fox. ‘You said yes. Now I’ll have to do it.’ But his face shone and he kissed her full on the lips despite the disapproving dancers who were colliding with them. Then he drew back with a frown. ‘Should I ask your father for your hand?’

‘I’m about to turn thirty-seven. My hand is my own responsibility.’

‘I haven’t bought a ring. And I’ll have to tell you my proper name.’ He pulled a face.

Margaret blinked. ‘Isn’t Fox your name?’

‘No, and very much yes. I’ll keep it a surprise till we tell the vicar.’

‘It can’t be as bad as my middle name.’

‘It’ll be worse. My parents were Scots. My maternal grandfather had a strange sense of the romantic and Scottified his English-sounding surname. My mother added it to to my father’s when they married and decided to give me a middle name that’s, well, unusual. But the surname’s worse. You can change your mind if it puts you off.’

‘I’m fully intending to keep my own surname. Yours is your own concern.’

‘You’ll have to pronounce it in public when we marry,’ said Fox. ‘Stop laughing. I thought you’d say no. I’ve been hinting for months, but you’ve been so oblivious that I thought you were trying to let me down gently. Are you really sure? Despite everything you know about me and my job?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Margaret. She was shaking with happiness. She wanted to hold him and kiss him and never let him go. She could have fought a dragon if one had been handy. ‘And if Bert ever tells me he thinks you might not be able to come back, so help me, I’ll go and get you myself. You’re not getting away that easily.’