Jake Arnott - The House of Rumour

‘I know,’ Fleming replied in a consoling tone. ‘Terrible show, I’m sure.’

‘It’s not as if I’ve had my hand caught in the till or anything. Just a speech here or there, a couple of questions in the House. Not declaring an interest, they call it. It’s a bloody disgrace!’

‘Quite,’ Trevelyan interjected softly.

‘You know what the worst thing there is to be these days? One of Winston’s old friends. He’s stabbing us all in the back now he’s in power. All in the name of National Government.’

‘Stabbing you in the front, it seems,’ Fleming retorted.

‘Exactly. Yes.’ He puffed through his lips as if he had run out of steam. There was something comical in his deflated anger. Miller suddenly thought how apt his first name was. Thursby looked like a furious teddy bear. ‘Well,’ he went on with a sigh, ‘I need another bloody drink.’

‘Fleming, Miller.’ Trevelyan hailed them as Thursby wandered off to the bar. ‘Shall we find somewhere quiet to debrief?’

‘Not yet. That.’ Fleming pointed at Thursby’s back and waited for the MP to get out of earshot. ‘You need to keep working on that. Persuade him to say something — no, even better, write something just a little bit indiscreet. Maybe place an article somewhere, you know, subtly critical and full of hints about an alternative. We need to keep this anti-Churchill thing alive. Especially now.’

‘Yes, good, but what shall I tell him?’

‘I don’t know. It’s supposed to be your speciality at Political. Keep him drunk, that’s the main thing. Meanwhile Miller can tell me all about this evening’s lecture. I’m keen to hear an objective assessment.’

Trevelyan glanced at them both with a slight frown. He nodded and went to join Thursby at the bar. Fleming and Miller found a quiet table in the corner.

‘Looks like you could do with a drink,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She sighed.

‘I know just the thing. A martini.’ He beckoned to a passing waiter.

As he ordered for them, it seemed to Miller that he was going through some sort of rehearsed performance, a precise litany of pleasure.

‘Two martinis, very dry, with vodka if you have it.’ He turned to her briefly. ‘Gin has the taste of melancholy, I always find,’ then back to the waiter: ‘Three measures of spirit to one of vermouth, shake them well so that they’re ice-cold. And a long thin slice of lemon peel in each. Got it?’

He watched the man nod and then tapped out a cigarette. He offered her one. She shook her head. He sparked up an elegant Ronson lighter and drew in a lungful of smoke with a satisfied hiss.

‘Now then, tell me all about this witches’ Sabbath,’ he entreated.

‘Tell me what you know first,’ she countered.

He grinned but his grey-blue eyes remained impassive.

‘Not my part of the operation, I’m afraid. Some barmy group of Fifth Columnists that Political is running, that’s all I know. M told me you had some experience in this area. Said you’re an excellent field officer too. But it’s all under control, isn’t it? I mean, otherwise…’ Fleming frowned.

‘Otherwise, what?’

‘Otherwise M wouldn’t have sent you in, would he?’

Miller couldn’t be sure of Fleming but she decided that she would trust him enough to tell him what had happened. His was a cold charm but it carried some sense of integrity. Their drinks arrived. She took a sip of the chilled spirit and felt her senses relax and sharpen at the same time. She quickly recounted the events of the early evening in the manner of a succinct report, giving all the details swiftly and precisely, so as not to dwell upon the embarrassing fear she had felt at the time. He had drained his martini by the time she was finished.

‘Good Lord,’ he murmured, casually gesturing to the waiter once more. ‘So it’s not safe.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Right then. We’ll have another drink and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.’

It was still dark at the all-clear and they were lucky to find a taxi in the gloom of Park Lane. Fleming ordered the driver to take them to his house in Ebury Street first. There was something that he had to pick up, he told her.

She waited in the cab as he went inside. In his bedroom he took off his jacket, opened a drawer of his dresser and removed a light chamois-leather holster. He pulled its straps over his left shoulder so that it rested a hand’s width below his armpit. He then reached into the drawer once more and carefully took hold of the small, flat Baby Browning .25 automatic that had been given to him when he had joined Naval Intelligence. This weapon had not been issued so much for his own use but rather for the protection of his boss, Admiral Godfrey, on such occasions that might be deemed necessary.

He slid out the clip, removed the single round in the chamber and then worked the action a couple of times. He squeezed the trigger and it made an empty click. As he began to reload the deadly little machine, he caught sight of his reflection in the looking-glass. A saturnine smile curled on the lips of his other psyche, the hollow man of his imagination. This was the persona of a dream, not one of slumber but of half-sleep, the other self that he would dwell upon at night as he waited for oblivion. He slipped the pistol into the slim purse of the shoulder-holster, giving it a gentle, reassuring pat. He put his jacket back on and went downstairs to the waiting taxi.

As he got in the car he wondered for a moment if Miller would detect any change in his demeanour. With a glance he noticed that she too wore the dull mask of those who anticipate danger or action. They made the taxi stop a street away from her flat. Fleming let Miller lead the way and show him exactly how she had gone home that evening. He followed closely, noting every detail of the route. There was a red glow in the sky from fires far to the east of the city. They stalked along the street to where she lived but there was no one about, nor could they find a clear vantage point from which her premises could be kept under surveillance.

‘We’d better go in,’ he said.

Her flat was on the first floor of a Georgian terrace. Fleming took the key from her and turned it slowly in the lock. He let the door swing open and took out his gun. They crept through into the living room. Miller switched on the light to reveal the figure of a man slumped in an armchair who rose swiftly to his feet, grabbing at something in his jacket pocket. Fleming raised the pistol and clicked off its safety catch.

‘Now look here,’ Fleming snapped in a patrician tone. ‘Don’t… Just don’t do anything clever. I’m licensed to use this thing, you know.’

He winced inwardly. Not only was his statement incorrect, it was an appallingly crass line. The man faced him in a simian squat, one hand still holding something hidden in his jacket. Fleming had to stop himself from laughing at this absurd tableau. He should shoot, he mused, and the other self would have done so. The other self would have killed by now. But he hesitated, realising that the prospect of actual violence repelled him. It was not so much that he lacked courage, but that he just had far too much imagination. He made a clumsy show of pointing the gun once more.

‘Come on,’ he went on, struggling to find something to say that didn’t sound like an awful cliché. ‘Put your hands… um, let me see what you’ve got there.’

His opponent’s face was contorted in a peculiar smile. A rictus of hate or fear, maybe both. The man remained still but for the hand he slowly drew from his jacket pocket. It was holding a little bottle.

‘Drop it on the floor,’ Fleming ordered.