Trapped, whichever way he turned, if the outcome was failure. The slow unravelling of time and uncertain circumstance would determine his place in the memory of future generations and events tonight would corroborate that outcome.
Day turned to night, and the lamps were lit. His secretary returned from delivering his letters, and added a bundle of new files to the heap on his desk.
He ordered a cold meal of ham and cheese. He had no appetite and ate little, and when wine was suggested, he refused.
At eight thirty he called for his carriage, and ten minutes later he left for his appointment at the Russian Embassy.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Doctor Hood and Judge Buffrey sat in the Doctor’s stationary carriage halfway down Grosvenor Crescent.
Hood raised the window blind and peered out. A gas lamp sputtered in the cold air at the corner of Belgrave Square. No one about. Drawn curtains in the surrounding houses, and the lamps inside outlined the window frames with a warm glow.
Then he heard the rumble of approaching wheels and the sharp clip-clop of a trotting horse. The Chief’s carriage swept past and turned into Belgrave Square. It slowed to a halt. A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Hood opened the carriage door, checked up and down the street, and then stepped onto the pavement. “Sergeant?”
A figure emerged from the narrow passage that ran behind St. George’s Hospital. “Sir?”
“It is time,” he ordered. “Bring your men forward.”
“Yes sir.” The Sergeant returned to the shadows, and Hood climbed back into the carriage.
“This isn’t a good idea.” Buffrey’s face glistened with sweat, and he dabbed it with a large white handkerchief. “I don’t like it.”
“It is a desperate act,” Hood agreed. “But, if it works, then nobody is going to be any the wiser. Mind you, if it fails, we shall all end up in prison.”
“But The Chief must know what he is doing, doesn’t he? I mean this is aggravated hostility and possible kidnap, serious crimes.”
“Are they? You tell me. You’re the Judge.”
Buffrey shook, the man was a nervous wreck; exasperating when they both needed clear heads to bring off The Chief’s plan. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to soothe his rattled fears. “Look if you want to go, then leave now.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” mumbled Buffrey.
“I won’t tell The Chief that you ran away.”
“I just don’t think that he knows what he’s doing.”
“Well we’ll soon find out won’t we? I suggest that you stop behaving like a baby and start co-operating. We are all in this together.”
The tread of heavy feet approached the carriage. He glanced out to see a dozen soldiers line up on the pavement and stand to attention, bayonets fixed and staring straight ahead. An odd assortment of men, some very young, and some very old. The left over dregs of the main force drafted overseas. He beckoned the Sergeant over. “Is this it?”
“The second company are on the other side of the square sir. They have orders to move in when they see us take up positions.”
“Good.”
“One thing sir?”
“What?”
“There’s a guard on duty outside the front door. Needs taking out, if you want us going in without drawing attention.”
Hood hadn’t prepared for this possibility, and indecision flustered his reply. “What, you mean shoot him? Won’t that…?”
“No sir,” interrupted the Sergeant. ‘I took the precaution of sending a young lad, a farmer’s boy, handy with a knife, if you get my meaning, to take him out. Knows how to creep up on his prey. Quietest way to despatch him.”
Hood’s anxiety flared into panic. “What happens if someone finds this guard missing?”
“Young lad’s taken his friend along with him sir. Going to put on the Russian’s uniform. No one will be any the wiser.” The Sergeant smirked at his own cleverness.
Hood exploded. “This isn’t a game!” He hated working with the ordinary man. They always thought they knew better. Give them an order and they took command. This situation brooked no room for error. He affected his most sarcastic snarl. “Can this “friend,” speak Russian?”
The Sergeant frowned, as if this question was the most ridiculous he had heard. “Not that I’m aware of sir.”
“You bloody idiot. Get them back.”
“With respect sir, it’s too late. They’ve been gone some time.”
The self-righteous congratulation in the Sergeant’s voice hardened Hood’s resolve to see him squirm. “If anything goes wrong tonight Sergeant, I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?”
But before the Sergeant could reply, the sound of running footsteps, pounding towards them, came from the Square. A short thin youth, wearing a uniform a size too big for him, rounded the corner and came skidding to a halt. He straightened up and saluted.
“Here’s the young lad now sir,” beamed the Sergeant. “Well soldier?”
“Mission accomplished sir. Enemy out.” The boy’s panting words swooped between a rough gruffness and a piping treble. “Dropped him as that carriage came round. Bit close sir.” He grinned at the Sergeant.
“Good work soldier.” The Sergeant patted him on the shoulder.
“Look sir. My first Russian scalp.” The boy held up a tangled mass of bloodied hair.
Hood recoiled at the revolting sight, while the boy flashed an innocent smile of triumph. Behind those dancing eyes, the Doctor detected the gloating menace of a blossoming madman.
“That will be all soldier,” the Sergeant barked.
The boy saluted and stepped into line with his colleagues.
“Guard taken out sir,” the Sergeant confirmed. “Your orders sir?”
Hood felt sick. “Wait for my signal.” He slammed the carriage window shut, reached for his handkerchief, and retched. His stomach folded over in waves of nausea. It wasn’t the blood and the torn skin that crippled him, but the boy’s beauty mixed with the horror of his obvious enjoyment at what he had achieved. To reconcile such disparate elements clouded all hope for the salvation of mankind. The world was doomed if youth and beauty revelled in careless sadism. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“You all right?” Buffrey frowned, his own handkerchief pressed against his cheek, and an open bottle of smelling salts penetrating one nostril. “Do you want a sniff?” he offered, but Hood pushed his hand back and grimaced at the building stench of ammonia.
“Put that filthy stuff away.”
Buffrey gulped. “I need it for my nerves. I’m in a terrible state. Why did he have to order up so many soldiers? If they’re seen, it’ll cause a terrible fuss. I wish I hadn’t come.”
Hood wrenched the smelling salts out of Buffrey’s hand. “Oh for crying out loud, shut up.” He pulled the window open, and threw the bottle out. It hit the pavement, and smashed with a tinkle.
Buffrey’s hands flapped in confused exasperation. “What did you do that for?” Sweat drops trickled down his forehead, and his double chin wobbled. “I need them. I’m not going to get through the evening—let me out—I’ve got to get them back.” His monstrous weight flopped against Hood, as he leant over and scrabbled for the door handle.
Hood lashed out and slapped the Judge’s face.
“Ow! That hurt.” Buffrey recoiled.
Hood gagged for breath. “Well stop climbing over me you great fat lump!”
“I need my smelling salts. I need them.” Buffrey’s sweaty handkerchief trailed over the Doctor’s face as the Judge made another lunge for the carriage door.