Where Death and Danger Go Read online

  Where Death and Danger Go

  V. M. Knox

  *

  Dedication

  Great Britain 1941

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Also by V. M. Knox

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Tom, Eloise, Ben and Charlotte

  “Honours should go where death and danger go.”

  Winston S. Churchill

  Speech to the House of Commons

  24th July 1916

  Great Britain 1941

  Chapter 1

  Oxfordshire, England, Sunday 25th May 1941

  Clement pushed back his jacket sleeve and stared at the reddish-purple scar. While the injury had healed, the memories were still raw. He’d survived. That was all he needed to remember. He lifted his head and gazed at the clear evening sky, breathing in the heady scents of the season. The panacea of spring in Oxfordshire was beginning to take effect on his subconscious and with the warmer days had come calmer dreams.

  The telephone ringing interrupted his thoughts, the persistent noise bringing him back from the past. Hurrying, he ran into the house and along the front hall then lifted the telephone receiver.

  ‘Would I be speaking to Reverend Clement Wisdom?’ a male voice asked.

  ‘Speaking,’ Clement said. He felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t the call he was expecting. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Clement, this is Superintendent Arthur Morris, previously Chief Inspector of Lewes Police. I am sorry to disturb, but I think I may need your help.’

  Clement’s mind went back to other times and Fearnley Maughton, his former home in East Sussex. Even though almost a year had passed since he’d last seen Morris, Clement found himself smiling. ‘You knew where to find me then, Arthur?’

  ‘One of the benefits of being a policeman, Clement.’

  ‘Congratulations on your promotion. Are you in need of a clergyman?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Morris paused. ‘I was wondering if you are still acquainted with certain persons in Whitehall?’

  Clement’s smile faded.

  ‘I’ll take your silence as a yes,’ Morris said. ‘Could we meet? Preferably somewhere outside Oxford?’

  ‘When did you have in mind?’

  ‘Would tomorrow suit?’

  Clement thought for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. I can do that.’

  ‘Do you know the public house called The Trout at Godstow?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Shall we say midday?’

  ‘Tomorrow then, Arthur.’

  Clement replaced the telephone receiver. He had, of course, expected a call but the caller was a surprise. Standing in his front hall, he visualised Arthur Morris, the relaxed, authoritative manner and quiet demeanour. Clement remembered the last time he’d seen Morris and for a moment he was back on the pebbled beach in the dark, only the English Channel between them and the enemy. Clement swallowed, his mind on the past. It had been the waiting he’d found most difficult then; not knowing whether either of them would still be alive when morning came. That mission had been successful but the victory had been soured by the revelation of the unexpected traitor. It had been the last, painful piece of the puzzle Arthur Morris had helped him to unravel. And now Morris was asking for help again. Clement felt a frown crease his brow. He wondered what could be troubling the Superintendent enough to make contact and yet despite the bitter memories, Clement liked Morris and looked forward to seeing the man again. They were about the same age and shared a similar past: both had had fathers who’d been vicars, both were now widowers and neither had had family.

  Clement sauntered into his kitchen and stared through the window at the vibrantly coloured crocuses flowering beneath the trees. He shivered, the action involuntary. Despite the tragic experiences with Morris and his picturesque garden, it was the more recent memory of his mission to far northern Scotland that could, in an instant, turn his blood to ice.

  He lifted his gaze and stared into the sky. The setting sun was highlighting the treetops. The translucent light of evening was descending. He continued to stare but he no longer saw its loveliness. A month in the relative safety of Oxford had made him almost forget that he was still an officer in His Majesty’s Special Duties Branch of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Blinking, he turned away from the window, his mind on Morris’s initial question about certain persons in Whitehall. He knew to whom Morris was referring: John Winthorpe, fellow cleric of the Anglican Church and currently, Captain of Naval Intelligence with the SIS. Clement thought on his former colleague from theological college; a man who, Clement believed, had found his true vocation in the labyrinthine corridors of Whitehall. Intelligent, charming, with all the right connections; John Winthorpe always turned heads.

  Clement hadn’t heard from his old friend in about a month, since Johnny had arranged his current living arrangements and employment; inhabiting a small house in St Bernard’s Road, Oxford, and engaged as Assistant Archivist at St Edward’s School not a stone’s throw away. It was the most boring position imaginable but it had two main benefits: flexible hours and no questions asked. Clement’s hand reached for the kettle and, filling it, he set it on the stove and lit the gas.

  Placing the teapot on a tray, he took his meagre supper into the front room and turned on the radio. Richard Dimbleby’s voice was telling the nation of the latest devastating bombing raids and their terrifying consequences but this night Morris was never far from Clement’s thoughts. He wondered what had prompted the call. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ he muttered.

  An hour later, he switched off the wireless, the daily news giving little hope of a quick resolution to Nazi aggression. He returned the tray to the kitchen and tidied up. Standing at the kitchen window, his gaze settled again on the trees in his garden. He heaved a long sigh; such a tranquil scene. It was an illusion. The atrocities of war both in Britain and elsewhere were many and varied and the secret, shadowy world he inhabited was never far away. He felt its icy finger tapping his shoulder. Drawing the blackout curtains, he went upstairs.

  Clement stood in the doorway to his bedroom and looked at the suitcase on top of the wardrobe. He’d almost forgotten it was there in the month that he’d been in Oxford. He pulled it down, retrieved the key from the lowboy and sprang the lock.

  Inside were two items neatly wrapped in an oily, linen cloth: his Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife sitting in its scabbard, and his pistol. Lifting the dagger, he withdrew the double-edged blade from its sheath. It fitted snugly into his palm; the feel of it unsettlingly familiar. Images, dark and bitterly cold, flowed from his memory. Taking a long breath, he pushed the knife back into its sheath and placed it on the bed. His gaze shifted to the Welrod pistol and several magazines of ammunition wrapped neatly alongside it. ‘You’re getting ahead of yoursel
f again, Clement Wisdom,’ he whispered. He put both weapons back in the suitcase but he felt the tightening in his chest that always heralded a mission. Relocking it, he lifted it back onto the wardrobe.

  Clement woke to the persistent chorus of the blackbirds. He’d slept fitfully; dreams of Caithness resurfacing, triggered, he felt sure, by seeing the weapons of his wartime trade. He blinked several times, then rubbed his hands over the stubble of his day-old beard. Sitting up, he yawned, the suitcase in his peripheral vision. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Six o’clock. Early. Too early. But too late for further sleep. He reached for his dressing gown, his feet searching for his slippers beside the bed. As was his habit, he made his bed then went downstairs and opened his front door.

  Bending, he reached for the morning newspaper on the step then tucked it under his arm and went to the kitchen. Tossing the newspaper onto the table, he drew the blackout curtains and set the kettle on the stove. The open tabloid caught his attention. A large photograph of devastated and bombed-out buildings occupied the front page. Sitting, he began to read. Hundreds had been killed and scores made homeless. How much longer could Britain hold out? It was an unanswerable question. Yet it was the one on everyone’s lips. The intensity and relentlessness of it all coupled with never-ending uncertainty had made 1941 a dangerous and unpredictable year. And it wasn’t over yet. The constant threat of death, of ceaseless bombing, of invasion and ruthless Nazi rule was undermining the nation’s spirit and would, Clement knew, inevitably erode resolve. The kettle whistled. He stood to make the tea then cut a slice from the last of his small loaf of bread and sat at the table with the newspaper.

  As troubling as the photographs were, he knew his war was elsewhere. He’d made his decision long ago and it had cost him everything he held dear. There was no turning back. Folding the paper, he stood then poured some hot water into a bowl and carried it upstairs. Setting it on the washstand, he adjusted the mirror and reached for his razor.

  The soap felt warm against his skin as he lathered the stubble. What had happened to make Arthur Morris call him? Clement chastised himself. One telephone call did not make for an undercover mission. He drew the razor down his cheek and along his jaw then wiped the blade on the towel. Perhaps it would come to nothing. He finished shaving, telling himself that he was worrying needlessly, then patted his face dry. His hand reached for the small mirror intending to replace it in the drawer but he caught his reflection. He stared deeply into his eyes. While his current occupation secretly terrified him, he knew he could do it. And, if he was completely honest with himself, widowhood had made it easier. Downstairs, he heard the key turn in the front door.

  Fixing his clerical collar around his neck, he walked onto the landing. ‘Is that you, Mrs Warrender?’

  ‘Reverend Wisdom?’ the housekeeper called back.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  ‘Not going to school today? Are you poorly?’

  ‘Not at all; but thank you for your concern. I have an appointment out of town.’

  ‘Should I telephone Mr Bainbridge for you and let him know you won’t be in?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. I’ll call in to school and see him myself.’

  ‘As you wish. Can I make you something to eat?’

  ‘That’s kind but I’ve already had breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll get on then. Will you be wanting me to leave you some supper?’

  ‘Thank you. That would be helpful.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Clement heard the door to the kitchen close. Walter Bainbridge, the Senior Archivist at St Edward’s School had recommended the housekeeper and Clement was grateful for her daily assistance but she was inclined to talk, and chat was something he avoided.

  At ten to nine, he said goodbye to the kindly and somewhat stout Mrs Warrender and closed his front door. Walking to the corner of his street, he crossed the road and strode towards St Edward’s School only a few minutes’ walk away. Boys of all ages ran before him along the footpath. ‘Don’t run!’ he shouted then smiled. Boys! Eager for life and adventure. He watched them run ahead. What future awaited them? The Nazis’ attempted invasion the previous year had not succeeded but Clement wasn’t so naive as to think they wouldn’t try again.

  Entering the main door of the school, he walked along the crowded, jostling corridor filled with raucous boys, the pungent smell of sweat-encrusted socks hanging in the air. The bell was ringing. Corridors emptied. He made his way to the stairs to his subterranean office, his footsteps suddenly audible in the now empty hallways. Surrounding him on every wall were the photographs of past students, their ageless faces staring out. Some were the stern-faced images of teams; cricket and rugby, of boys with rigid arms and tucked-in thumbs. Others were of boys on bicycles and teams of cross-country runners; photos taken before the war when boys of every nation attended the school on exchange programmes. That had all been discontinued with the coming of war and the German students in particular, hastily returned home.

  Descending the stairs, he opened the door to a small basement office he shared with Walter Bainbridge. Bainbridge wasn’t there yet. Clement switched on his desk lamp and started on the mountain of files awaiting his attention. He worked on the former headmaster’s speeches for well over an hour before closing the file. Despite the quantity of files on Walter’s desk, he still had not arrived and now Clement couldn’t wait any longer. He checked his watch then wrote a quick note saying that he may not be in for a few days. Leaving it propped against the ink well on Walter’s desk, Clement turned out the light and closed the door.

  The bus stop on the Woodstock Road was only a hundred yards from the school gate. Clement quickened his pace, the eleven o’clock bus due at any moment. At the bus shelter, an elderly man wearing a frayed tweed coat sat waiting. ‘Morning,’ Clement said. The man smiled in response but didn’t speak. A minute later the bus drew up.

  Standing back while the older man boarded, Clement heard him purchase a ticket for Enstone, some miles distance to the north-west. Paying his fare, the man then took a seat behind the driver.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the bus driver asked Clement.

  ‘Wolvercote,’ Clement replied, searching for some coins. Paying the fare and pocketing the ticket, he walked to the rear from where he could watch his fellow passengers. Other than the man who boarded with him, there were six women with full shopping baskets, two small children, and ten airmen who chatted excitedly amongst themselves. As they left the outskirts of Oxford, an older couple joined the bus, the pair sitting towards the front. The woman didn’t carry a shopping basket and they were well-dressed, so Clement decided they were keeping an appointment or visiting someone out of town.

  Clement alighted in the village of Wolvercote about a mile from Godstow for his scheduled meeting with Morris at The Trout. As he did so, laughter floated towards him. Several children were playing a game of hide and seek on the nearby green. He paused, watching them. Never having had children of his own, he knew little about them but their laughter made him smile. The scene was so ordinary and care-free, so oblivious to the catastrophic events going on not too far away.

  ‘May they never know the trauma of their city cousins,’ he muttered, remembering the pictures in the morning paper. Ahead of him, the airmen gathered on the footpath, several lighting cigarettes. Clement guessed they were making for The Trout also. He hung back, their chatter and occasional laughter along with the aroma of tobacco wafting towards him.

  He checked his watch. He was in good time and he would enjoy the walk after a morning in the stuffy basement office. Thirty-five minutes later The Trout came into view, a low, curved stone wall separating the road from the inn. Clement took the steps beside an adjacent bridge that led to the inn’s front door. Opening it, he stepped inside. Through the windows he could see several groups of people sitting on the terrace by the river. No one was sitting indoors. He ordered two small ales from the barman then made his way
outside.

  The number of people there surprised him. The warm, late spring weather was encouraging people to sit in the sunshine. The scene was a welcome respite, a refuge of sorts from the daily unpredictability of war. Clement scanned the assembled gathering, searching for Arthur Morris but the phlegmatic, grey-haired man was not yet there. Clement made his way to a table by a low wall overlooking the fast-flowing river. Around him groups of friends chatted and laughed. About twenty feet away, a couple sat together, their hands touching, their eyes engaged solely on each other.

  The airmen had taken a table by the river, glasses of beer already in their hands and behind them, three men sat huddled in conversation. Clement’s gaze settled on the trio. One of the three appeared to be of advanced years. The other two men were young but he knew the type. Their clothes were a uniform of sorts; the tweed jackets and worn clothes of academia. Clement returned his gaze to the roaring torrent beside him as it tumbled past.

  At exactly noon, the small door from the inn opened and the man he recognised approached him.

  Clement stood. ‘How are you, Arthur?’

  ‘Good to see you, Clement. Thank you for the ale,’ Morris said pointing at the glass.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  Morris took the seat opposite Clement. ‘Do you have any commitments for the next few days?’

  Clement visualised the files on his desk. ‘Nothing urgent.’

  Morris leaned forward, his voice low, his brown eyes flicking around the other patrons. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. About two months ago, just before Easter, in fact, the body of a man was found buried in a copse of trees in a field near the village of Ramsey, some thirty or so miles north of Cambridge. The pathologist confirms that the body had been in the ground about two months. Thanks to the severity of last winter and the boggy soil where he was found, the corpse is quite well preserved. The deceased was a physically fit man in his mid-forties. His remains offered no identification and no one has come forward to claim him nor has anyone reported him missing. Whilst that’s not a completely unusual occurrence in the cities these days, it is unusual in remote farming communities. Especially so in view of this particular man.’