‘Just a little soirée, Superintendent, a few close chums, you know. We had a couple of gatecrashers, though. Would you mind awfully?’
‘Be my pleasure, sir. Come along Alderman. You, too, Ehrlichmann.’
‘That’s “Sir David” to you, you jumped up little–’
‘Was, sir. It was “Sir David”. It won’t be come tomorrow morning so you’d best get used to it. Can’t have German spies as knights of the realm. That wouldn’t do at all.’
Two of the constables laid hands on Gerber and Sir David and manhandled them towards the door.
What happened next has haunted my nightmares from that day to this. I remember that once, a few years before, Lady Hardcastle had managed to borrow a moving picture projector which she set up in the London flat for a party. Her guests were greatly amused by the flickering images, never more so than when she cranked the handle at the wrong speed. Winding it too fast made the people on the screen jitter about comically, while winding it too slowly made them move about with a ponderous elegance, as though struggling through treacle.
In my memory, the events of those next few moments move with that same terrible slowness, each tiny movement etched on my mind forever, with me unable to move quickly enough to do anything but scream.
Gerber had learned more than just the Chinese fighting arts in his prison cell, he had mastered the skills of Harry Houdini himself. No one had noticed, but while we were all congratulating ourselves on our brave capture of the nefarious German spies, Gerber had freed his hands from the cuffs that bound them. As the constable pushed him past Harry, he grabbed Harry’s revolver and began to race towards the door. As he crossed the threshold on his way to freedom he turned. The projector in my memory stops here every time as I see him level the gun and point it straight at Lady Hardcastle. There was a bang, the loudest single sound I had ever heard. The flash was blinding. And then he was gone. He fired two more shots over his shoulder as he fled down the stairs, keeping his pursuers at bay as he bolted for the door and freedom. He was gone.
And then the awful moment of realization. Lying on the floor, blood pulsing from a wound in her stomach, was my Emily.
Autumn had arrived and the view from the window of the small hospital room was bleak and grey. And although everything inside the room was bright and white and antiseptically clean, the view in there was bleak and grey, too.
Lady Hardcastle had been unconscious for six days.
While the constables had hared off into the darkened streets in search of Gerber, Daffidd and his captain had taken temporary charge of Sir David in the flat while the superintendent had driven Harry and me, with the wounded Lady Hardcastle propped between us, to a surgeon on Harley Street. The streets were slick with drizzle and the car had slid more than once as the superintendent drove at incautious speed towards the hospital.
She had been in surgery for five hours as the doctors removed the bullet and tried to repair the internal damage. It had taken all their considerable skill, but they had eventually stemmed the bleeding and stitched her back together. Days passed, and although she remained mercifully free of infection, she had not regained consciousness. She had lain there in the crisp, white linen sheets, her dark hair framing her face, neither moving nor uttering a sound.
Harry and I took turns in staying with her, reading her the telegrams and cards that arrived every day from her friends. We read from the newspapers, too, especially the unfolding story of the fall of disgraced Home Office official, Sir David Alderman. Investigations were ongoing, it seemed, but a network of spies and agents had been uncovered and the German Ambassador had been summoned to explain the actions of his government. Diplomatic tensions were high.
Of Gerber, there was no sign. Harry’s men had been on the lookout and all ports and railway stations were on alert, but he had not been seen. I didn’t mention this in my reports to the comatose Lady Hardcastle.
I turned away from the window and sat in the armchair beside the bed to read. Harry had brought me a brand new book by Mr E M Forster and I found myself childishly pleased to keep reading my own name as Lucy explored the city of Florence. After a few minutes there was a gentle knock at the door and Harry came in.
‘What ho, Flo,’ he said, bending to kiss my cheek. ‘How’s the old girl?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I said, putting down my book. ‘Gabbling away as usual. Complaining about her lunch, joking with the staff. She even…’ My voice cracked a little and Harry put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
‘I know, Flo, I know.’
‘The stupid old biddy,’ I said with a sniff. ‘Just careless and rude, she is. Standing in the way of a bullet and then not even having the decency to wake up and tell us she’s all right.’
‘She will,’ said Harry. ‘The doctors say it can sometimes take a few days for the body to recover from a shock like that.’
‘She’d better,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
‘There’ll be no need to find out, old thing,’ he said with another reassuring pat. ‘She’ll be right as rain in no time.’
There was a rustle of linen and a croaky voice said, ‘I bally well will as well.’
Harry and I looked over in shock at the slowly awakening figure of Emily Hardcastle.
‘Now do stop being so maudlin, there’s a dear. And would you be a pet and fetch me a cup of tea? I’m absolutely parched.’
The End