Lady collendons cook, p.16
Lady Collendon's Cook, page 16
There were already some small partly burnt logs of wood in the fireplace. Using his lighter, and some paper, it didn’t take long to stoke up a roaring fire. Fintan sat down in an armchair in front of it and began eating his drumsticks and drinking the beer Kalo had so kindly given him. Yet, things didn’t quite add up in his mind.
For instance, he did not see any sign of the stream which Kalo said would be the source of their brewery enterprise. And, although the property was clearly a farm of sorts, clearly nothing had been harvested on it for quite a while. He had also noticed a couple of dilapidated vehicles scattered about, which made him wonder what the property was really being used for. Fintan shrugged it all off. Best not to worry. At least he was now here, in a safe environment hundreds of miles away from the Lincolnshire police. It could be quite a good hideout, perhaps even in the long term. He would just have to do a few things like alter his own appearance and obviously change his name and no one would be any the wiser.
He eventually fell asleep in front of the fire only to awaken with a start a few hours later. Though the fire in the grate had died out, something had alerted him, like a subdued noise. He sat up and stayed perfectly still for a moment. Then he heard them, men whispering and the sound of slow footsteps, apparently going up the creaky stairs in the hall.
Fintan had a finely tuned sense of survival, an instinct which was as honed as any animal’s. He just knew that danger had come into the house through the front door. He got up and crept over to the window, and keeping his head low, noticed there was a black car parked at the entrance of the farm. He sneaked out into the dark hall and could hear the voices of two men talking in a subdued tones upstairs. Fintan assumed they had gone into the bedroom to surprise him and had come away empty handed. They were now making their way back towards the staircase. Whoever they were, they had the keys to the house. So, if anyone was trespassing it was probably Fintan, and not the men who had come into the house. Strangely, they seemed to be expecting him.
Fintan prepared himself to either fight or flee. At this moment, it was all unclear. Had Kalo sent these people? Fintan crept into the kitchen, held his breath and waited for the men to come downstairs. He hid on the other side of the kitchen doorway where he could see a reflection of the staircase in the old mirror in the hallway. What he saw convinced him that he was indeed in danger. Two rough-looking men with switchblades were coming down the stairs, and it was obvious they were here to do him harm!
Fintan took a deep breath and hung back. A part of him was hoping the men would just go. It did appear that their intentions were clear. They knew he was in the house and they had come to, ‘have a talk’. The question as to, ‘what about’, was something Fintan would find out.
Suddenly one of the men said in a strong Irish Brogue, ‘His van is outside, so he must be in the damned house somewhere.’
The other man said, ‘Keep your voice down!’
Luckily, Fintan had the element of surprise on his side, and he had been in these situations before. Despite himself, his brain was feeling somewhat addled and unable to focus properly. And then it came to him. Kalo had put something in the beer! Kalo was behind this. But why? He had been so friendly and open and encouraging. It didn’t add up.
The men were now in the passage, making their way to the lounge. ‘There’s been a fire here,’ one said. ‘And there’s a bag!’
‘Shh!’ the other man told him.
Fintan almost smiled to himself; for a couple of would-be assassins, they were pretty clumsy. But he knew that they would soon be turning their attention to the rear of the house where he was in the kitchen. He began quietly looking around for a weapon to defend himself. Foolishly he had left his own knife in the bag in the lounge. His brain just wasn’t functioning normally. He quietly opened a kitchen cupboard and found a broom. Hardly the best weapon, although, with an artful aim, it could certainly crown an attacker. He took this, and then quickly rummaged through a drawer under the draining board. Knives! Lots of them. He drew out a large carving knife. It could doubtlessly inflict a nasty injury if required. He was all set.
He positioned himself to the left of the kitchen doorway and waited. The shadow of the first man suddenly fell across the threshold, and then his head appeared. Fintan immediately pounced, whacking the man’s knife with the broom handle and kicking him hard in the stomach! The flick knife went flying and the man fell with a groan. Fintan then swung round like an oversized ballerina and kicked the second man in the groin, who cried out in pain and staggered backwards dropping his own knife. Fintan quickly stamped on with a heavy boot and in one foul swoop he had subdued his two attackers. They looked up at him, bewildered.
‘What do you want with me?’ Fintan said in his most menacing voice. He was still holding the broom in one hand and the carving knife in the other.
The first man suddenly made a movement and tried to grab Fintan’s carving knife. Fintan’s reactions were as quick as lightening and he threw a well-aimed foot at the man’s chest and followed this up with a broom poke to the stomach and another kick. Winded and moaning, the man slid down the wall. The other assailant had remained where he was, sitting on the bare floorboards of the hallway, apparently with few other options.
‘Who sent you?’ Fintan said again. ‘Was it Kalo?’
Neither men responded. Fintan then dropped the broom, grabbed the collar of the first man, dragged him to his feet and held the carving knife to his throat. ‘Who sent you? You either tell me, or you’ll end up as dog meat!’
As he asked this question the second man suddenly got to his feet, scurried to the street door, opened it and ran off.
Fintan, unperturbed turned his attention back to the man he was holding. ‘He was in a hurry! No matter. Are you going to be reasonable or what? I can tell you’re a Romani like me and people like us should stick together, don’t you think? Tell me who sent you and I’ll let you go.’
‘Kalo,’ the man said, his resolve weakened now that he was on his own. ‘He sent us. Kalo said you’re a police informer and no good.’
Fintan raised his eyebrows and eased the pressure on the man’s collar. ‘Me a police informer? Now that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. No, that’s not right, and you need to believe me. Do you believe me?’
The man, his eyes wide, nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Fintan said letting go of the man’s collar.
The man fell backwards.
‘Go on, get out!’ Fintan said. ‘And don’t bother coming back, because I won’t be here!’
The man scrambled out the front door without closing it.
Fintan slowly walked into the lounge and looked out of the window. He watched the two men get into their black car at the farm entrance and quickly drive off. Fintan knew it was only a matter of time before more of Kalo’s thugs would be coming out of the woodwork. It was best to leave the farmhouse as soon as possible, which was a pity.
But first he was going to look around, and see what he could use, and then he would drive south and lick his wounds and decide what to do next. It was a major blow that Kalo had turned on him, and apparently for no good reason.
***
It was late, and Geoffrey Beresford was sitting chatting amiably to the attractive young German actress, Lilly Vandorf. They were in a private reception room of the extravagant Das Stern Hotel in Drake Strasse, Berlin. They were not alone, as they were attending a special party being given in Beresford’s honour, hosted by Colonel Hermann Schrepps. No expense had been spared, as the Fuhrer liked to treat useful friendly foreigners well. The main cause for celebration was Mrs Green’s guilty verdict.
One of Schrepp’s orderlies whispered something in Beresford’s ear and he nodded, pleased. The actress looked at him curiously. ‘What is it?’ she said in German.
‘Some more good news,’ he replied. ‘One of our other enemies has just passed away. And now we are all safer as a result.’
The actress nodded her head. ‘That is very good to hear.’
Beresford raised his glass of champagne. ‘To the Fuhrer!’
The actress smiled and chinked his glass with her own. ‘To the Fuhrer!’
The other good news, as it turned out, was the fact that journalist Safri Brahmbhatt had been found dead at the back of his London hotel. As far as Beresford was concerned, this was no surprise. It also meant that there was one less needle in the sides of the Home and Foreign Office and less pressure on him. From this, it was hoped the Delhi Herald would now sit up and take notice and put the Mrs Green story on hold!
Colonel Schrepps, who was talking to one of his orderlies, beckoned Beresford to come over to the cocktail bar where he was sitting. ‘Geoffrey, I have been informed that there are new British initiatives afoot,’ the Colonel said keeping his voice low.
Beresford raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘Might be important,’ the Colonel replied. ‘The Abwehr have become aware of a pilot scheme that has been set up by your Secret Intelligence Service, SIS. Have you heard of the AIU?’
Beresford shook his head. ‘AIU? No, I can’t say I have, Hermann. What’s it’s function?’
‘The AIU stands for the ‘Anti Infiltration Unit, apparently,’ the Colonel said. ‘It’s also known as Department J. It operates to undermine any attempts by foreign powers to infiltrate influential British societies, clubs or persons.’
Beresford blinked as he absorbed this information. ‘I see. Presumably they have active agents?’
‘Most certainly,’ the Colonel replied. ‘How many we don’t know. There’s bound to be several agents in London and possibly others in other major towns. Just keep your eyes open. We haven’t detected any direct threat to you personally. But we mustn’t take things for granted.’
‘Thank you, Colonel,’ Beresford said. ‘I shall make some quiet enquiries myself and let you know what I find out. However, I do have a couple of names which may be of interest to you. Helga Brinkmann and Fritz Hals. They could be agents. One is actually my German tutor. I have already run a check but it’s inconclusive.’
‘Write these names down and I’ll see what I can find out about them,’ the Colonel said with a nod. He raised his glass of champagne. ‘And may the war come soon!’
‘I’ve been drinking to that for months,’ Beresford said clicking the Colonel’s glass with his own.
***
After spending a week at Holloway, Alice was suddenly woken at five in the morning and whisked away to a remote prison in Gloucestershire. The name of it was enough to send shivers down the spine of any squeamish mortal – Coldvale, HMP. It commanded three grey fortress-like buildings and several acres of sparse grounds, all surrounded by impenetrably high walls. It had been built in the mid-Victorian times, when the word penitentiary meant just that, a place where punishment and reform was the main order of the day. It treated its female inmates to a diet of enforced Christianity, skimpy food, lukewarm shared weekly baths and sewing work. It was all thought good for the soul.
The Reverend Damon Rung was the Governor, and he ran the place very strictly with an eagle eye for anyone who stepped out of line. He did it out of the goodness of his antiquarian Christian heart. The prison was mainly filled with convicted prostitutes, thieves and very few murderesses. Alice Green was the most notorious one in recent times. It was a status which attracted an instant interview with the Governor himself.
Alice was presented to the Reverend Rung on the second day and was made to stand before his desk with her arms behind her back. The Governor, a thin, pious-looking man with glittery eyes, surveyed her solemnly.
‘Mrs green, I’m the Governor of Coldvale, The Very Reverend Damon Rung. I am concerned that you have been sent here into our care, rather than to a London-based establishment. But these are unusual times and I have been informed that you are to receive special treatment. Basically, this means you’ll be entitled to privileges which are not normally given to inmates in their first few months.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Alice replied.
The Governor frowned. ‘As it happens, I have the right to take privileges away as much as I am empowered to grant them. And after reading the transcript of your trial, Mrs Green, I have decided that you won’t be entitled to the following. One, you won’t be entitled to receive any food gifts during visiting times. And, two, you will only be able to receive visits twice a month. Also, any wages earned sewing mail bags for the General Post Office will be deducted to pay for your food as normal. The Home Office had specifically asked that you receive extra food privileges, but I disagree. You will also only be entitled to one set of clean blankets and bed sheets a month. You will also be obliged to share a cell with three other women. And everyone has been instructed to report the others for any misdemeanor they commit. By this I mean, if rules are broken, there will be punishment. Stealing is severely frowned on here. And there is always solitary confinement for repeat offenders. It’s known as the cupboard. You will also have to attend chapel every Sunday morning. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You may go, and may God guide and protect you during your stay here!’
Alice was sent with her bedding and prison clothing to the main wing. Here, she was shown into a cell with a normal bed and a bunk bed for two. A curtain hanging across a third of the small room provided some dignity for the privy, and an old stained metal bucket was visible for use. No sooner had the prison officer locked the cell and walked away, when one of the two women occupying it approached her.
‘I’m Jessie, and I’m the boss here!’ The first woman said. She was a painfully thin, dark eyed, imposing person in her late thirties with greying hair. There was also an old scar running parallel to her jaw line. ‘We know what you did, and we don’t like your sort. Working in posh houses and ‘all. You will have to sleep on the bottom bunk. Also, I get a share of your food!’
Alice put down her bedding and prison smock on the table stared at the woman. ‘Really? Well, you can go to hell!’
The woman appeared surprised at this response. ‘Do what?’ She approached Alice menacingly. ‘I’ve got a knife, and when you’re sound asleep, I’ll cut your ears off!’
‘You dare touch me,’ Alice said her eyes blazing. ‘And you’ll be sorry. I’ll report you to the Governor!’
The woman sniggered contemptuously at this and suddenly grabbed Alice round the throat. Alice quickly shoved in the stomach, and then twisted her around. ‘Do you think, because I’m an older woman I can’t take care of myself?’
The younger woman struggled vainly for several moments, though it was useless against Alice’s powerful arms, strengthened by years of working in kitchens.
‘Let go of me, you fat hag!’ Jessie screamed. ‘Big Jean Mullins is going to hear about this, you wait!’
‘Big Jean Mullins?’ Alice said with a laugh. ‘Who the hell is Big Jean Mullins?’ She suddenly released the younger woman from her grip and pushed her away.
It was at this point that Alice had a better look at the woman sleeping on the top of the bunk bed. Her head had been covered with a blanket which she pulled this down and stared at Alice fearfully. She was quite pretty and apparently in her late twenties.
‘I take it, you’re not Big Jean Mullins then?’ Alice said breathing heavily from her unexpected exertions.
‘Not me!’ the girl said, burying her head under the blanket again.
Alice turned to stare at Jessie, her new adversary, who was now sitting on the normal bed. ‘Now, you listen to me, Jessie, or whatever your stupid name is, I don’t know who this Mullins person is supposed to be. But I’m a desperate woman. I’ve been sent to prison for something I haven’t done. So, I don’t care a damn about you or your silly Big Jean. If Jean wants to pick a bone with me, she can try. Because I’m not taking any nonsense from no one. And that includes you! Try anything again or when I’m asleep, and you’ll regret it!’
Jessie’s eyes seemed to glow with scorn. ‘Well, you’re still sleeping on the bottom bunk!’
‘That’s alright,’ Alice replied. ‘I don’t care where I sleep!’
Jessie continued staring at Alice for a long few moments and then she turned away.
The bottom of the bunk bed, on the other side of the small cell, was unmade. Alice picked up her bedding and quickly made her bed. Unfortunately, the striped feather pillow itself was quite unsavoury and smelly, although the starched pillow case disguised this to a certain extent. The bed was a welcoming sight for someone who was exhausted from the day’s travelling.
Alice undressed and put on her grey prison smock, which she presumed was her day to day wear. It was a relief when she finally climbed into bed and closed her eyes. The lights in the cell were still on, though it didn’t bother her. She was already drifting into the sleep of sheer exhaustion. She didn’t even give a thought to what the next day would bring.
***
Chief Constable Biggins clasped his hands together and nodded as Inspector Haycock came into his office at the Lincolnshire Police Headquarters. This was at a different location to the Constabulary where Haycock was based. Haycock gave his chief a brief smile and waited to be asked to sit down.
The stocky Chief waved him into the chair opposite his desk. ‘Ah, Haycock, sorry to be a pain in the old proverbial. But I really must insist that you move on to the next big thing, before this current thing explodes in our faces!’
Haycock took a chair and closed one eye, as he tried to decipher what his boss had just said. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I’ve had Lord Collendon on the phone, not to mention her Ladyship as well, the other day. She’s been complaining about the Green trial. Apparently, they’ve struck a deal to release Mrs Green early. But she can’t go back into service which has upset her ladyship! And his Lordship has been complaining about you!’
