A Choir Of Assassins E-Book

Pete Adams

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: An Avuncular Detective
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 435

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Ancient conspiracies and modern-day crimes collide in Pete Adams's 'Choir Of Assassins'. When the seventh officer of Hegemon is assassinated in the Temple Round Church, the body is taken under the London Bridge. Meanwhile, in Portsmouth, the Brainy Boy gang is found not guilty of assaulting Professor Violet Smith, leading former Detective Inspector Cherry Clarke to take matters into her own hands.

However, each of the Brainy Boys is brutally assassinated soon after. As the retired First Sea Lord of the Admiralty is also killed, the discovery of seven severed pinkie fingers sets off alarms in the Mammon crime profiling and data storage programme. With the help of Bong from the Serious Crime Unit of Scotland Yard and Grace Church of MI5, Cherry investigates the mysterious links between these crimes and the Royal Peculiar. But when Professor Smith asks her to become her avuncular, Cherry realizes she might be in over her head.

Full of suspense, twists, and turns, 'Choir Of Assassins' is a must-read for fans of gripping mysteries.

Leseprobe

A CHOIR OF ASSASSINS

MURDER IN A ROYAL PECULIAR – PART ONE

AN AVUNCULAR DETECTIVE

BOOK 1

PETE ADAMS

CONTENTS

Also by Pete Adams

Glossary

Prologue

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

REVELATIONS

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

RESIDUUM

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Pete Adams

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ALSO BY PETE ADAMS

1. Kind Hearts and Martinets – 5 book miniseries:

Cause and Effect

Irony in the Soul

A Barrow Boy’s Cadenza

Ghost and Ragman Roll

Merde and Mandarins

2. The DaDa detective Agency – 3 book miniseries:

Road Kill

Rite Judgment

Blood Sport

3. Dead No More: Book 1: The Rhubarb Papers

4. Black Rose: Book 1 Larkin’s Barkin’ series

A Deadly Queen: Book 2 - coming soon

5. An Avuncular Detective, a new series, commences with a 2 parter:

Murder in a Royal Peculiar, Parts 1 and 2.

Book 1: A Choir of Assassins

Book 2: Extreme Unction – coming soon

Pete Adams writes clever twisty tales, eccentric characters, crackling dialogue,

a talented writer who has complete control of his material - Alison Baille

Hegemon – a group that is all-powerful and therefore able to control others.

Hegemony - Dominion, authority, command, power, leadership…

A Royal Peculiar - is a Church of England parish or church exempt from the jurisdiction of the diocese and the province in which it lies and is subject only to the direct jurisdiction of the monarch – Wikipedia

Dedication – Kim Carlson… we fight the good fight so those who follow will enjoy what we once had.

PROLOGUE

Who says that the Establishment should be men? Who says that the power base, the controlling influence of the aristocracy in Britain, should consist only of men? Women are now allowed onto Corporate Boards and are integral in the legal system. So what of the glass ceiling? Is there still a glass ceiling? Who says there should be a glass ceiling? Men? And, why is that and, what if…?

It is in times of turmoil, possibly deliberately created, that good and bad, right and wrong, can become confused and we are encouraged to believe in, for the greater good. Good? And, who determines what is Good?

We are reminded of JFK, who said, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution inevitable.”

ONE

A quick death. Time enough. Enough time and, it was their time. It had been a long time. Too long a time and, it was about time. They had bided their time and now, it was time, their time:

* * *

Soft shoes on ancient stone flooring. Stones inscribed with the names of Knights dating back to mediaeval times, long before the purge in 1307 drove the Order underground. It would be easy to argue the Order became stronger because of this enforced secrecy and, to ensure that Hegemon survived and prospered, each of the Seven Officers did not formally acknowledge each other in these identities. A veiled anonymity was considered natural, and a necessity historically, and continued today; it was tradition.

Hubris? Confidence born of arrogance? Human nature can blind. The observant, looking on, will see there are always cracks, and you can look through cracks, can’t you?

When the Seven met, they would meet at the Temple Church, a church built by crusading monks in the twelfth century, situated between Fleet Street and the River Thames in London. For centuries it has nestled within the tight cluster of Barristers’ Chambers to the Inner Temple and Middle Temple, two of the four London Inns of Court, the professional association for Barristers in Great Britain. The organisationofthe Seven had been meeting since the church had been consecrated in C.1185. They would meet within the circular building known as the Round Church – it was a Royal Peculiar.

Historically, as a Royal Peculiar, this church and its Officers were exempt from the jurisdiction of the Diocese and the province in which it resided, which was, The City of London. Distinct from Greater London, the City was the business district these days; the money men, and some women, worked here. It was known as the Square Mile. The Temple church, as a Royal Peculiar, was subject only to the direct authority of the King or Queen of England, and this was important to the Order, essential, and it still enjoys this privilege today. The Monarch? Well, they created the Crown. The Crown was their own, in so much as they sprung from the Royal Ascendancy; at least, they did. These would be the moneyed haute monde, their wealth not new born, oh no; they had their place by hereditary right. Others, the disdained, they had argent; money.

Historically, or traditionally, the entitled became titled; nothing changes. Nothing is allowed to change; tradition again, and Britain is all about tradition, is it not?

Historically, money bought titles and, as a consequence, you became entitled, at least this is what the current aristocracy believed, although many brutally bullied, stole or conquered, in order to achieve their sense of right of ownership, their position in, The Nobility. The Aristocracy was, in truth, all about smash and grab, and keep at all costs, and all made acceptable by longevity. In other words, if your family survived and was favoured by the Monarchy, they had credibility. They became the Establishment. They were, as much as anyone could be, bullet-proof, even more so if they had the protection of a Royal Peculiar.

Although as personages they would be well known, having conspicuous power, and flaunted their wealth and entitled position, all in the best possible taste, naturally, anonymity of Hegemon was considered a prerequisite for the Seven, and this was preserved throughout the Order, even when the Seven met. Of course they knew each other and would recognise voices, but when they met, they preserved the ancient rites of anonymity, because this was not about them. It was about the Order, which was about God, the Absolute Being and his representative here on earth. They could be identified when in their guise, only by a signet ring on the right hand, the pinkie finger, worn these days only ceremonially. Otherwise, the Seven were caped in monk's simple hooded cloaks, faces masked, proffering a powerfully ghostly visage.

They knew each other because they came from the noble select few; however, the levels of strata below, apart from Squires and Esquires, never knew who the true Officers were, and they never asked. It was an innate trust, and you abided by that. No questions asked. It was how the British system of governance was established, by The Establishment. Only one person knew formally the identity of the Seven, and that was: Number One – The Absolute Being – who represented, here on earth, The Mystery of God; Universal life force – the power of life or death.

A midnight meeting had been called by Officer Seven, the Guardian.

As the clock struck midnight, the Guardian arrived to find the Round Church dark and deserted. The only illumination provided by two robust and tall altar candles, their flickering half-light creating a heavenly atmosphere. The Guardian loved the church like this, it made his divine rapture total, and he embraced it. This was Templar, Seventh Heaven. The highest heaven, where God and His most exalted Angels dwelt. This was their Dominant Dominion, where the Officers exercised their pre-eminence over all others. It was a heady atmosphere, but one the Guardian had been raised for, yet still he was, as always, exhilarated. This was Hegemon, and he was the Guardian of Elysium – Seventh Heaven.

Soft shoes shuffled. Another ceremoniously garbed Officer approached. The Guardian spread his arms in traditional greeting, the act of trust and supplication causing his simple dun cloak to open and reveal the white undershirt with the trade mark red cross. The intersection of the blood-red cross covered the heart, the heart the stiletto expertly pierced. The Guardian stood motionless. From beneath the Guardian’s mask emanated a muffled sound of bewilderment. He did not register pain, but was aware of a gentle gurgle from his throat as blood seeped through the mouthpiece of the Earl of Montmorency’s mask.

There was a haunting whoosh from the robes as the Guardian dropped to the floor and died beside the stone effigy of William Marshall, one of the most violent and yet celebrated men of the Middle Ages. He had been the Royal Defender of the Faith and the first Number One, the first Absolute Being; God the Father, and Defender of the Order.

Soft shoes shuffled away, job done. The old iron key retrieved from a deep pocket and the lock in the heavy door effortlessly turned to allow entry to the wet team of nuns from the Order of Clemence, their convent was nearby. They were permitted entry to do their job while the assassin melted into the deserted dark lanes of the Inner Temple.

The Guardian had considered himself anonymous. He had considered himself secure. He had considered himself, safe. He wasn't, and he had had no time to warn the remaining six of the Seven.

All had gone to plan:

* * *

Violet had the look of an elderly bag lady, wrapped in an old mac, a constant she wore always, despite the summer heatwave; as if it was her security blanket. She sported also a crushed, deep green, narrow brim, Tyrolean trilby style hat with a wonky, verdant green feather, set on her grey haired wizening head, set at a rakish angle; a symbol of a racy past? Beneath the mac she wore green and brown tweed, a skirt and jacket, the ensemble finished off with a billowy cream silk blouse. She wore knitted stockings and sensible suede shoes; Hush-Puppies. Her narrow skeletal face, incongruous on a body that looked that at one time had been trim but now leaning to plump, had an intelligence you had to look for and, once found, was difficult to ignore. It radiated a menace; that should have been a warning. There was history wrapped up in Violet Smith’s face. An experienced visage that said she would take no prisoners; she didn't, and she never had. The life of academe had done little to soften the underlying ruthlessness of this retired Professor of Geology at the University of Portsmouth, but now, she was in court. A victim?*

*Read – A Blood Sport – Wigs on the Green – Book 3 of the DaDa Detective Agency.

* * *

Witch dressed the part and lived the part; she was the part. A PTSD-suffering Marine Commando veteran of Afghanistan and other, not-so-well-known conflicts. Ruth Witchel had been a decorated colour sergeant. Now, she was on the streets, forgotten and discarded by a government concerned only for themselves and their sponsors. This government ruthlessly pursuing a programme of austerity that was killing the people they were supposed to represent, charged to protect. That was okay, though, because when people are in survival mode they do not see what is happening in front of their very noses, blaming who they are told to blame by a complicit media.

Someone had to do something because it looked like the powers that be, and all its levels of authority, truly had a vice-like grip on the Governance of this Sceptred Isle; this earth of majesty that the Establishment considered their own, by historic Right.

Kindness was rare for the discarded on the streets of Portsmouth. There had been Sister Blende, a nun, but dressed in ordinary clothes. You wouldn’t know she was a sister, her language as ripe as she was used to hearing in her regiment, but it made Witch feel cared for at least, but… There is always a, but… The sister seemed to be grooming her, there was something more; it was an intuitive thought that had proved accurate. However, what did Witch care.

Ruth had been nicknamed Witch in her regiment and not because her name was Witchel, although this was the prevailing thought. Her call sign was Witch because she had a mysterious ability to get under your skin. She possessed a depth to her intellect, and a canny ability to kill. Ruth Witchel, Witch, was ruthless.

* * *

Sister Blende was a Nun without Porte-folio, what you would call in the religious trade, a floating nun. She was a member of the Odre Ancien de La Mort noir des Soeurs de Clemence, the Ancient Order of the Black Death of the Sisters of Clemence. They dated back to the former Sisters of Mercy, originating in the mediaeval City of London, before they were expunged in a purge, re-emerging a century later in 1348 when nursing and caring skills were needed during the Black Death plague. They were reputed to have been funded by the French King at the time, Philip VI, and, in exchange, the Order was offered a secure future as a Royale Particulier; a rare privilege that just about made them secure, Intouchables; The Untouchables was translated also into London, and this Right remained even to today.

There had always been a Sister Blende within the Order since its conception. The origin of the name Blende is Ore and each rebirth of the name was entitled for a precious metal: Gold, Silver etc. The current Sister Blende was Copper and she had skills beyond her calling; she was a Seer and, without her penguin suit, she had a rare ability to blend in.

* * *

And what of Cherry? Bless this strong woman. A retired Detective Inspector in the Portsmouth Police, pursuing a personal dalliance, visiting the courts, following injustice, despairing that she could no longer do anything to right the wrongs. Was Cherry an innocent, about to be sucked in?

Yes. In this instance, she was, innocent.

TWO

2 days later - The Six in Seventh Heaven

Formal meetings of the Seven were rare, but one had been planned for that midnight; the Guardian had turned up two days earlier having been informed, through the correct channels, the meeting had been brought forward. The Seven were aware action was required to deal with an administrative matter and, in line with historic protocol, action would be taken; one of the Esquires had declined an order and resisted six of the seven formalities.

As tradition dictated, Midnight, in the crypt Chapel of the Temple Church, six of the Seven gathered. It was quiet, the traffic of Fleet Street and Victoria Embankment, such as it was at this time of night, was attenuated, not even a distant hum. All attempts to reach the Guardian had failed. The sealed identity documents will be opened and the name of the Guardian passed to the Esquires, who would appoint an Enforcer to investigate, but already the unwritten law had been transgressed; incommunicado was not acceptable. This meant only one thing, they would need a new Guardian, and the process for selection was initiated; there was no hurry.

In the meantime, the case of the errant Esquire, Admiral Stanley, remained open. It was, after all, the original reason for the meeting. One of their Esquires had gone rogue. There had been no response to their messages. Guidance notes in the first instance, and normal; you did as you were told. Stanley, before he retired, had been the Head of the Military in Britain, but still, he owed Hegemon a debt of loyalty, beyond Queen and Country. The advice notes sent to the Admiral became, as he would be aware, tougher over a year, ramping up from guidance, to threats, and to the final ultimatum. His services were needed, for Admiral Stanley, although retired, had influence and the Seven needed some influencing done.

There had been no reaction from the Admiral to their traditional sacrifice. Not the ultimate sacrifice, naturally, but a sacrifice nevertheless. Not their sacrifice, obviously, but a necessary one. Honour was at stake. The secure future of Hegemon, at stake. In the past, history dictated that when required, each Knight would slice off the pinkie finger of their right hand, in order of ascending importance. Finger of number seven first, cut and delivered with the pinkie ring still attached. And then, one by one, each Officer would comply with the tradition until the result of transgression of the fundamental code was ameliorated. If not, the consequences had been laid down over the centuries and were known by all in the Order. A strict code, however dated it might appear to a sensible outsider, needed to be followed and most of the following was done by loyal followers, squires and below them esquires, who passed on directives and, where applicable, punishments, to the, for want of a better word, although it would be apt as to how they were viewed by the Establishment, the Plebeians.

Ordinarily it needed only one finger to prompt the necessary reaction, but in the case of Admiral Stanley, no response had been forthcoming from the previous six fingers. Therefore, ultimately, the final finger was to be issued; the finger of the Almighty, the Absolute Being, or at least the finger of his squire, or more than likely the esquire had arranged for the finger, because cutting off one’s own finger could hurt. However, whoever’s finger it was, it had been done; Finger One with the requisite identifying signet ring had been sent.

These days it would not be the Knight’s fingers, naturally, but the pinkie of their followers or wherever they sourced it; the Seven did not care. These days people would notice a severed finger within the society the Seven moved and, even in the rarefied Establishment circles, socialites would not look upon the Knight in awe and trepidation, as was the past custom. So, needs must and donations were sought, some reluctant, others pleased to serve. It mattered not to the Seven or their squires and esquires. The Knights ordered the taking of fingers and the despatching of their coded messages, adorned with a simple replica gold signet ring, and this was the message.

Over a period of a year and in ascending order of importance, a pinkie had been delivered to Admiral Stanley via dead letter boxes known only by a few. The Admiral remained steadfast until the final finger, Finger One, arrived at his house, delivered this time by courier. He now had the set. The message was received, seven fingers. He knew them all. Not the people, not the hands, but the Order of the Knights, the Officers, and he knew what each meant; he had transgressed the unwritten law, which was presumably written down somewhere, but would never be for his eyes:

Finger ONE: The Absolute Being

Finger TWO: Creed Master

Finger THREE: Father of the Chapel

Finger FOUR: Master of Sin

Finger FIVE: The Preacher

Finger SIX: The Worthy One

Finger SEVEN: Guardian of Elysium - Seventh Heaven

* * *

The Admiral looked at the fingers, each with a small ring. He had kept them in order, serried ranks in a cigar box, within the small freezer in his study. The first finger he had received was inscribed with an Italic numeral, the number seven along with the insignia of the Order. The meaning? It was the first layer of Heaven. In other words, at that time, he could expect six more fingers from the Guardian and action against him would be instigated along an increasing and diabolical scale if Hegemon orders were not carried out, to the letter.

Admiral Stanley was unaware the Guardian had been assassinated and neither were the six other Knights when they ordered the dispatching of the final finger. It would not have mattered, because the power of Hegemon was innate. Chop off the head and another would grow. Nobody had ever challenged them and survived. People knew they existed or, were rumoured to exist, but that was all; they were omnipresent and all-powerful.

The Admiral wondered why after a long and, he would say, illustrious career, although many just considered him a pen pusher, why now of all times, had he stuck his heels in and refused, by implication, a direct order? Why now had he developed a spine and stood up to defend his Navy. Well, what used to be his navy? Why should he care? He had prospered in his military life of following orders, rising to top of the chain of visible command. It was just, what he was being asked to do made no sense militarily, to cut drastically his forces. Make savings they said, but he knew this would make the complement of officers and ratings under the current Admiral of the Fleet vulnerable. But, Hegemon wished to use Stanley’s inalienable influence and perceived right, to make the navy, make the cuts.

The Admiral knew this was serious but did not know why and knew also he would never be privy to that sort of information. He would never be offered clarification of the raison d’etre. He had to follow orders. It was what he had been trained to do. So why now was he baulking at this? Also, as far as he or anyone knew, officially, the despatching of the full seven fingers had not happened for over twenty-five years, and why would anyone know? The fingers were not for the hoi polloi, not even for the higher echelons of Society.

The Establishment exists. It prospers and it defends itself, ruthlessly. These Delphic heights, however, were not for the common populace or for those who even considered themselves among the elite. The Guardian of Elysium, with his six Brother Knights of Hegemon, controlled the perceived Establishment who, in constant delusion, considered they ruled, incognito, unaware, except for the one or two.

Admiral Stanley was one who knew, though he wished he didn't, but at the time it had been a price he was willing to pay for his rising up the military ranks, albeit never to the exalted ranks of the Temple. He had been a lowly esquire, which was still some achievement. Nobody rose to the level of an Officer Brother of Hegemon. It was, more or less, an inherited title and the Admiral knew he was lowly born, born to follow, however high he rose in the ranks or in Hegemon.

Hegemon would be forever protected and those involved in the lower ranks, mostly enforcement, military, police, judiciary, heads of powerful corporations, etc. were simply a supporting network for the Knights.

So who were the Seven? The Nobility. The Elite of the Aristocracy. Those who inherited their entitlements as reward for historic valour or so they thought, or had been told through the generations. It was a myth they perpetuated: They were Knights of the Temple.

They were Templars.

However, things were not as they should be. These were difficult times. Serious measures were called for, and not for the first time. It had been almost twenty-five years since the Knights had been called upon for preceptive action; the seventh finger. The Order rarely met, maybe once a year, but when they met it was a gathering of the most powerful individuals in the land, and the Temple would crackle with tension, not that you would see this in the faces of the masked individuals or in their body language. Power sat on their shoulders like a comfortable cloak. This was Hegemon, and Hegemon met over the tombs of Brother fallen Knights Templar, in the Templar Church, in the City of London. They were the modern-day warring monks who had met throughout history in their first, and what would be their only ever, English headquarters, which had been since consecrated in 1185 by the Patriarch, Heraclius of Jerusalem; this was The Round Church.

Except this night, there were only six. Midnight struck and the absence of Number Seven was again noted to reaffirm their misgivings at the lack of response to messages despatched. What had happened to the Guardian? Had their Order been infiltrated? Or, was there some simple explanation? In the meantime, the final message, the final finger, would need to be despatched to Stanley. A replacement for the Guardian would be found among the appropriate families, in time, there was no rush, except they needed to find out what had happened to their Brother, not for any caring reasons, but for their own safety and for the protection of the Order. But it was a mystery.

THREE

Detective Chief Inspector Debs Smith – Scotland Yard, Serious Crime Unit.

The City of London Police knew, but only now this knowledge had risen to the loftier levels of the Metropolitan Police. Why was that? Why had there been no hue and cry when the body of the Earl of Montmorency had been discovered? Not just any body, this was a Lord of the Realm. However, Detective Inspector Georgie Randall of the City Police had no time for posh knobs, but she did respect a D notice (an order for a news blackout) when she received one, and knew also she could rely on the discretion of her close friend in Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Debs Smith, or Lilac,* as she was known.

*See – Dead No More.

Crime scene photos had been taken and, unusually, the case was called in by a special division of MI5, which did pique Georgie’s curiosity, well beyond her intuitive copper antennae. Beyond also, her enquiry as to who had, in her opinion, professionally stabbed the Earl, dumped the body, stripped and left naked with the pinkie finger of the right hand brutally severed. It was obvious that where the body had been found was not the crime scene. She also knew there was more to Lilac than met the eye, and her willingness to smooth over the Spooks and attend immediately the locus of the body, and to take the case for her department, the Serious Crimes Unit, was pretty much confirmation of her ambiguous bonefides.

Over a coffee, Georgie and Lilac had talked through the circumstances they were faced with. The corpse had been removed from wherever the murder had taken place and laid out on the historic site of the mediaeval convent of The Nuns of Mercy in the City of London; a coincidence? And, in case they were likely to have difficulty identifying the victim, his name and title along with the number seven, had been written in black marker pen on the Nobleman’s exposed chest.

DI Randall and Lilac supervised the bagging of the body and saw it sent to the central morgue for the Home Office pathologist and that was it, as far as Georgie was concerned. She had better things to do than get mixed up with underhand Statecraft, which would likely end up with her getting her fingers burned. This she left to Lilac and, good luck to her.

* * *

The Home Office pathologist, Alice Almond, received the body of the Earl of Montmorency, and after a moment or two of contemplation over a cup of tea and a cheese and onion sandwich, she fastened the lid of her flask and made a call.

‘Lilac, I’m sending you pictures of the corpse. I presume you noticed it has the pinkie finger to the right hand crudely severed.’

‘I did,’ Lilac responded, ‘why?’

‘The reason for this call is that I recall something of this in the past. Can you run this through your box of tricks and let me know what pops up please. Also, I’m not sure how relevant this is, but the identification of the body is now confirmed as that of the Earl Montmorency. Maybe another vector for Bong; a Peer of the realm?’

An hour or so later, Alice received the old file she requested from Scotland Yard’s Serious Crime Unit along with associated data, relevant facts from similar cases. She knew of the Scotland Yard computer programme, relatively new, named Mammon. It was a programme developed by two officers, a Detective Constable Ben Diamond, a giant of a man called Big Ben who had now become Bong, or Bong-Bong, depending on what time of day it was. Bong was a mild-mannered giant who took all the comradely ribbing in a good spirit. He was a computer whiz, which is why he had been kept in the serious crime unit, never to be allowed out on the street because he was a liability and not at all promising as a sleuth, or even a thug, but he was good with computers. Along with an archives officer, Grace Church, Bong was developing the Mammon programme, which collated historic violent crime, initially in London, but it was beginning to be rolled out across the country.

Not only did this programme work as an electronic historic archive, it served to correlate alike modus operandi that could connect crimes and possibly identify perpetrators. It also offered clues from history as to what sort of person might commit such crimes. Essentially it was electronic profiling and it had proved to be successful in a number of cases already. As the programme developed so various Intelligence Agencies became interested and… involved. It was then that Grace Church, a plain, blue stocking lady in her early thirties, with the look of the sixties film star, Rita Tushingham, revealed she was MI5 and she had been placed in Scotland Yard archives to work specifically with Bong for this very reason. It transpired that Grace and Lilac, DI Inspector Debs Smith, fell in love and now lived together. Whereas Bong, the shy and easily startled giant, remained in the serious crime unit working with Lilac and Grace on Mammon, but had been, in a roundabout way, recruited by VI6 (Vatican Intelligence, overseas) and was now married and living with, Mother, who was Olive Doyle, formerly a Mother Superior and now head of VI6 in the UK.*

*See – Dead No More.

Alice Almond gazed hypnotically at the screen of her computer. It displayed the historic files; seven postage stamp pictures. Seven hands, the right, each with the pinkie finger crudely severed. On an adjacent screen was the picture of the naked body of the Earl of Montmorency, laid out within a narrow City of London lane, in perfect condition, just a tad overweight. However, the significant thing that had attracted her attention, after the expert use of a stiletto knife, was that the pinkie finger of the right hand had been inexpertly severed; it jogged her memory much as it had DCI Debs Smith. Lilac was an old friend of Alice Almond and she could rely on the confidence of her former lover and now, fast friend.

The lane, where the body had been dumped, would have been called a runnel in the old days, hovels for houses, crowded together behind Fleet Street, the main thoroughfare from the City of Westminster to the City of London. Almond’s natural curiosity and her genuine interest in mediaeval London history, revealed this to be adjacent to the site of the Nuns of Mercy Convent, nowadays called the Sisters of Clemence who resided on another site, but not that far away.

Alice Almond imparted to Lilac the fruits of her latest research, revealing that the Nuns of Mercy had been cruelly put down for challenging, first, the rule of the Monarch and in particular, the elite authorities; the Mayor and the Guilds, who were responsible for running London at the time, all of which resulted in the punishing life that the people, the Nun’s parishioners, had to endure. After a period of time, the merciful sisters were replaced by the Order of the Sisters of Clemence and they had risen in stature and wealth with mysterious backing, thought to be the secret Order of the Knights Templar, but nobody knew and, it would seem illogical that this would be the case, the Knights being intensely misogynistic. It could even have been the Monarchy, maybe under a Queen? There was no proof of anything of this matter other than rumour and hearsay, but it seemed likely as the Order of Nuns were left alone to run their convent to look after the poor of their Parish. The rumour being if the unwritten law of protection of this Order was transgressed, it would bring down the might and awe of the Monarch; this establishment having been granted the status of a Royal Peculiar.

Now, Alice had the old files, she was able to speak with Lilac and expand on what had been just theories that morning. The ideas they had kicked around were mainly a shared recollection of a series of macabre incidents in the wealthy area of London’s Hampstead Heath. As far as Lilac was able to recall, with the added assistance of Mammon, the Hampstead hands had been discovered over a period of a year, more or less, twenty-five years ago. Lilac had become aware of this because it was still talked about at the time she had become a young detective; common knowledge in the Met. Weird crimes often were notorious, and something like this you do not forget if you are a young, impressionable, ambitious and dedicated copper.

Referring to the mammon print-out, the first hand was recorded as being found on the Heath in the hollow of a tree, which generated a local police enquiry without success. No body was found. It was after the third hand had been discovered, also on the Heath but in a different location, on the site of a former telephone box on the perimeter, that Scotland Yard became involved. Following the discovery of a fifth hand, Scotland Yard informed Special Branch who informed MI5. Something was not right in this State of Denmark, and still no bodies. Five hands became seven, no leads, no bodies, no clues. Fingerprints were no good, they had been erased; acid was the pathologist at the time’s guess. No DNA, the hands had been soaked in bleach and the technology was in its infancy, having been first used in 1986 and not widely available and, after a while, it was forgotten, apart from macabre legend amongst police officers.

In short, the police and the Intelligence Agencies were in the dark, but at least there were no more hands being discovered. It was exactly this that Alice read in the files generated by Mammon, but there came with the file, courtesy of Lilac, a pinged alert, for eyes only; MI5 had recorded notice of seven severed pinkie fingers being found in Portsmouth, sent to the home of the former Head of the Military, Admiral Stanley.

There were other related mysteries that Mammon raised that had alerted Lilac. She knew she would have to get involved, and she did.

FOUR

Admiral Stanley knew the game was up. The seventh finger had arrived. He had anticipated it and had scoured the local dead letter boxes around the City of Portsmouth to no avail. His forlorn hopes of salvation were dashed when it was delivered to his home by courier. He realised that after the first two fingers he would be on shaky ground, but still he did nothing. Denial is what it was, denial of the risks in not carrying out the allotted tasks. He had been given a mission that even he, as a former high-ranking naval officer who had sold his soul to the system, not far off the devil, baulked at doing. He still had some military pride and, it was upon this he had hung his sailor-boy hat. Now though, it was not his hat but his life that hung in the balance, with no perceivable protection; he was doomed.

He had been asked to use his contacts with current serving officers to manipulate standing orders that could and, not to put too serious a slant on it, threaten world peace and especially the security of the country. So it was this late on in his life and following the arrival of the fifth finger, he had found a backbone. He resisted. What was his resistance? It was mainly doing nothing that in his addled and frightened mind, he had justified as patriotic heroism. When he opened the package with the sixth finger, his plan did not seem so solid. It would appear he was being even more heroic than he had at first imagined. His plan of denial was flawed, now realising that what he was being asked to do by Hegemon, was of such importance he had been allowed to get as far as six fingers, with no precipitative reaction; no punishment, but in his heart he knew it was inevitable.

His strategy had been carved out of his innate cowardly personality, and in that moment of clarity, where he faced up to his bleak future, he saw he had risen in the ranks not through any ability other than to kow-tow. He had swaggered and bullied his way to the top, bending his knee only to Hegemon. He had thought that if he ignored the fingers they would go away, that Hegemon would interpret his non-compliance as a reasoned argument. In this instance, he was patently wrong. It was impossible to communicate with anyone to argue his case. When he had been an active Esquire, he could maybe have got a message to the Seven. However, now, in retirement, he was dangerously out of the loop.

Reality dawned. His life was collapsing around him. All that he had built by dint of his avarice and cowardice, was crumbling. He was a dead man walking, and he knew it. While he awaited the inevitable, the delivery of the final finger, the finger of the Absolute Being, Number One, he had hidden himself away in his house, drinking to seek oblivion; what could he do? Who could he turn to?

Finger Seven arrived and, sitting in his darkened study swinging in his Captain’s chair, a retirement gift from his fellow officers, he looked at the ranks of the fingers he kept in a small freezer built into the credenza behind his ornate desk; packed like macabre sardines. It was a freezer for his ice cubes, his drinking having taken on such measures that he no longer allowed himself the walk to the kitchen, and he could hardly keep the fingers in the family freezer, could he?

Why did he keep the fingers? He often asked himself that question. He was never sure if he could offer a rational answer, other than they were not his to dispose of? But, they had been sent to him. So, they were his? They were certainly meant for him and, even if he disposed of them, it would make no difference. That was obvious. The fingers were all about the message; you do not disobey a request from Hegemon.

After a day or two of inebriation, resolving to do this and that, all plans that in rare moments of sobriety did not amount to a hill of beans, he reluctantly made a call to the police. This was a forbidden move. Of course he knew this, but he was scared for his life, knowing also his phone call would almost certainly exacerbate his situation, if that were possible. But, in his alcohol narcosis it seemed his only option. His post rationalisation, or at least his hope, was that if he told all he would be able to get a new identity and disappear to live out the rest of his life in safety.

It was a long shot, but it might just work.

Would his move be anticipated? Maybe, but what choice did he have? The tentacles of Hegemon were everywhere and nobody knew this better than Admiral Stanley himself. He knew, after receiving the first few fingers, he would be on the, to be watched, list and frankly, he was surprised he had been able to get away with it for so long. He imagined the powers that be at the Temple were aware of the enormity of what they had asked him to do, and so, allowed him time to arrange for the orders to be carried out or, to stew, which he had done, only not in his own juices but those of the distillery.

So it was, he expected the police to call upon him, but could they act fast enough? What he had done was out of National Interest, wasn’t it? However, you do not break the unwritten law with impunity. It was a rock and a hard place, but again, what else could he do?

Not only had he not carried out his task of military subterfuge, but he had been lured into a trap and revealed a little too much information to a journalist, but she was just so beautiful. Trapped by his own ego, and it was the Pimple and Pimple duo of great repute. The journalists who had broken the news and most importantly, the raison d’etre of the Rite of Spring*. The background story of the headless then reheaded and resurrected and now dead, dancing nun, Sister Winifrede. How could he resist?

*See Book 2 of the DaDa Detective Agency, ‘Rite Judgement’.

It was supposed to be simply a retirement profile on the Admiral, with Pimple and Pimple. However, he found himself faced by a gorgeous, sex-siren woman Cecelia Pimple who had him gurgling like a baby. And then there was her husband, who was a Lord of the Realm, Lord Everard Pimple. It was a name he recognised, but was he Hegemon? He certainly could be, and how would he know? Had he walked into a trap? He could not be sure, but in that moment of what he considered to be rational thought, he considered he could state his position for the record, to be passed onto Hegemon by Lord Pimple, that it was his love of country, his faithful loyalty to the British Navy that caused him to ignore the orders of Hegemon, not that he had revealed the name. It was in that watery bowel moment he had developed a verbal diarrhoea and Pimple and Pimple had written it up and, heaven forefend, or Hegemon, forbid, they had published.

Admiral Stanley was not sure if it had been intuitive interviewing or if Pimple and Pimple knew something. Lord Pimple must be a Templar? A squire or an esquire, at the very least? It made perfect sense, and he had fallen into the trap that had to have condemned him. He was subsequently the one who was damned and this article, rather than calming stormy seas, surely had prompted the final two fingers. It was a brief moment of reflected heroic glory, respect from fellow military men for a man considered a wimp, who had finally stood up to be counted. The feeling of ersatz pride he knew would be fleeting, and so it had proven when the seventh finger had been delivered.

He, therefore, had no alternative but to approach the police. He would turn State’s Evidence. It seemed his only chance, but Hegemon’s tentacles…? He reasoned, and convinced himself that telling the police was not so much about his own safety, or that of his family, but more for the established order. Camaraderie and all that. Military solidarity, haute monde, what-what. It was not arse protection, he had insisted, to himself. He reasoned further, it is what he would be expected to do by those who did not know of Hegemon. He should protect his military and fellow officers, his country, regardless of acts previously carried out by him, or the historic consequences; long may they remain undiscovered. He saw these actions as making amends, without telling all that he had done in the past, naturally. Stand together. Walk tall and defend the Brotherhood, but it was not his Military Brotherhood, for many years ago he had pledged his allegiance to another not-so-benign brotherhood that stood before the wants of the country. Except, Hegemon was the country, wasn’t it?

For all of his life he had carried out orders; as a child in the military academy, the military High Command, obviously, but atop that pyramid for those in the know, was Hegemon, and nobody crossed the Knights Templar without suffering the full consequences.

It was in the annals of Templar history, dating back, so the legend goes, to the formation of the Order of the Garter by Edward III in 1348. A chivalrous order that was usurped by the reformed Knights Templar; a Christian army for Christian values. At least that was the initial aim of the warring monks. However, this very soon became perverted to blatant self-interest and the accumulation of enormous wealth, which brought with it, power. A secret and all-powerful organisation headed by those born with the divine right to rule; the British Aristocracy. And what were the current values if they were no longer Christianity? Not many knew, and Stanley presumed they varied to suit the circumstances of the day. But who determined what these circumstances were?

They were of course determined by the Grand Master of the Chapel, his local Chapel, and asserted by the Absolute Being; Number One. The father of any subservient Chapel and all senior ranks knew this, sworn as they were to secrecy, fully aware of the repercussions that could be expected for transgression. Admiral Stanley and his colleagues were the military, and they defended the Established Order. But the Order had been driven underground centuries ago, eschewing their long flowing robes with the distinctive red cross, for a discreet symbolic ring on the right hand, the pinkie finger, signifying being at the right hand of the Ultimate Being, and that was it. The ring only visible these days when on ceremony, which would be a closed and secret affair.

Although the founding mission of the Order was militaristic, campaigning for Christian values, these days relatively few of the lower members were combatants, or even necessarily in the military. This was no longer a requirement. The Knights set themselves up to manage the Establishment, to manage the financial infrastructure of the old world order, their Order, arguably back in the day, forming the world's first multi-national Corporation, surpassing the so-called Illuminati. The military code was there only to secure the Order of Hegemon. Dominion over others. Simple, and a Divine Right.

FIVE

'Spare a bit of change, Guv?' The ragged homeless woman proffered a grubby hand clutching a tin can inscribed with the words "Former soldier with PTSD" in red felt tip. She had not a pick on her skeletal frame, and atop was a wizened face that had likely looked old since the day she was born and destined for the gutter. She shook the tin, a weak rattle from the meagre amount of copper coins; not a good day. 'A cuppa tea, Guv?'

Baldwin was in Portsmouth, again, on another mission. He recently had just escaped a capture when ordered to assassinate Sir Wendell Wallop, head of a local news media empire. Sir Wendy, as he was known, had challenged the status quo of all mainstream media outlets, which was to back the Tories (Hegemon’s puppets in power); Baldwin had been a little too late, but had carried out the task of murdering the media mogul in the middle of his mea culpa broadcast.

How much damage had been done to the Establishment control could only be guessed for the time being, but Baldwin’s masters had not been happy. They were even more displeased because he had also killed a foot soldier of the cause, a man known as Wally. They had wanted Wally taken and interrogated to find out who he was really working for. He was presumed to be MI5, which was bad enough, but now they will never know. However, Baldwin was their top Enforcer and was therefore cut some slack; just a little.

Baldwin had been dropped down the notional ranks for a while, now a simple Templar hitman. His task this day was to assassinate Admiral Stanley, and he was working alone, though ordinarily he liked to have a close assistant. Wally had been his trusted bagman, but that had not worked out, and Baldwin still worried about how he had been taken in so. Wally had been a part of his former SAS unit. So much for camaraderie and regimental loyalty, Baldwin thought, ignoring the fact that he had killed Wally. Baldwin, notionally, worked for Humphrey Brannon, head of the Brannon Corporation, a man who took no prisoners. Baldwin had not fully understood that Brannon was a front, as the Chief Executive of Brannon Corp., and he had now disappeared. He could guess what had happened, which would likely be accurate and, as a consequence, he will not see Humpy anymore.

So, who did he work for now, other than his Order? His wages were being paid and instructions were still coming down the line, but from whom? The Brannon offices in St James’s Street in London’s West End had been closed, and he needed to take stock of his position. Maybe he would request a retreat at the Auberge; recharge his batteries.

Baldwin looked down at the wreck of the beggar woman. There was a suggestion of dignity, slowly being erased, signs that any remaining sense of humanity will be lost to her forever, and soon, unless she received the help she deserved. Baldwin rummaged in his pocket, pulled out all of his loose change and funnelled it into the tin. As a former soldier he was resentful of the way the mentally scarred veterans were being left uncared for. He had served with women soldiers and knew them to be as brave and capable as any of the men he had had under his charge as a captain in the SAS. He decided to linger a while and engaged the vagrant in conversation. It was a benign late summer day; at least today, the poor woman would not freeze or end up with pneumonia he thought; so many do.

'Where'd you serve?' he asked her.

Hooded, azure blue eyes, cautiously looked out of the weather-beaten, leathery face and made contact. The eyes, the only thing that sparkled, Baldwin thought to himself. The only thing about the woman that portrayed evidence of an extant life or erstwhile pride, beneath the grimy skin and filthy clothes. 'Afghanistan, three tours,' she replied in a staccato military speak.