Murder at Aldwych Station Read online

  MURDER AT ALDWYCH STATION

  JIM ELDRIDGE

  To Lynne, without whom there’d be nothing.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY JIM ELDRIDGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday 3rd December 1940. 1 a.m.

  Bombs rained down on London from the fleet of German bombers, pounding the city and sending flames of destruction across it, just as the Luftwaffe had done for the past three months. It was estimated that about fifteen thousand Londoners had been killed since the start of the Blitz in September, with another twenty-five thousand seriously injured. Much of London had been razed to the ground, whole streets flattened.

  Deep below ground beneath central London, two figures emerged from the entrance to a narrow tunnel into the larger one where the Underground railway line ran between Aldwych and Holborn stations. The electric current to this section of the line had been switched off. The two carried the body of a young man. Between them, they headed towards Aldwych station until they came to a barrier that had been set up across the tracks, protecting the treasures from the British Museum stored there. They laid the young man’s body across the railway tracks, then made their way back to the smaller tunnel from where they’d come and vanished into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday 3rd December 1940. 6 a.m.

  The shrill wail of the all-clear sounded across the city, signifying the night raid by the Luftwaffe was over. There were no more German bombers headed for London, at least for now. In Knightsbridge Underground station, those who’d taken shelter from the bombing began to make their way to the surface. Among them were retired former general Cedric Walters and his wife, Phyllis. Although Phyllis had been able to fall asleep on a rug on the platform, General Walters had spent most of the night awake, as he did most nights, bitterly regretting that because of his age he couldn’t enlist and take an active part in the war. He remembered his time in the trenches during the First War. Yes, he’d been wounded, but he’d survived, unlike many of his comrades. For him, his time at war had been glorious, every emotion heightened, facing the enemy and the prospect of dying every day. This business of spending his nights skulking like everyone else below ground galled him, but he had little chance of doing anything else if he was going to keep Phyllis safe. She wouldn’t go down to the Underground for shelter if he didn’t.

  ‘We’ve been together for forty years,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t be with you in the trenches but I’m with you now, and we’re going to stay together. I won’t allow it that you get killed on your own. If you die, we both die.’

  And so, every night, when the air raid warning sounded, they sought shelter on the platform of Knightsbridge station, among other locals, many of whom had become friends – or at least people to talk to – as they sheltered here during the past three months, until the all-clear told them it was safe to return to the streets above them.

  Each time, they wondered what those streets, the city itself, would look like. How much would have been destroyed during the night’s raid? Would their home be standing, or would it have been flattened like so many others?

  When the general and his wife approached the small block of flats where they lived, their own flat being on the top floor, they saw that the building had indeed been hit. It was still standing, but it looked as if the roof had been struck. A fire engine was parked outside the block of flats and there were pools of water flooding across the road and pavement. Thick fire hoses ran from the engine up the steps to the entrance of the flats, and continued onwards up the concrete staircase.

  Walters and Phyllis hurried up the stairs until they reached the top. They saw at once that the door to their home had been broken open so the fire crew could gain access.

  Inside their flat, four men in fire crew uniforms switched off the valves on the fire hoses and laid them down, then stood, surveying the damage.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded Walters.

  The four men turned and looked at the couple warily.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘We’re the owners,’ said Walters. ‘This is our flat.’

  The man pointed towards a hole in the ceiling and said, ‘The explosion tore off part of the roof and set the rafters alight. Luckily we got here in time or you’d have lost the lot.’

  Phyllis looked with dismay at the state of the flat, every piece of furniture drenched in water. The carpet was so waterlogged it was like walking across a shallow stream.

  ‘Everything’s ruined,’ said Phyllis, upset.

  The man shrugged. ‘That’s water for you. That’s what it does. It’s either that or flames. Most people prefer it wet like this than burnt to ashes.’

  General Walters suddenly spotted that the door of his safe was hanging open.

  ‘What’s happened there?’ he demanded, pointing.

  ‘What?’ asked the man, and the other three began to drag the fire hoses out of the flat.

  ‘My safe,’ said Walters, outraged. ‘It’s been broken open!’

  ‘Well, don’t look at us,’ said the man. ‘We haven’t touched it. That must have been done before we got here. Or maybe you left it unlocked?’

  ‘No, I locked it before we went out,’ said Walters firmly. ‘I check every time we leave the flat.’

  He went to the broken safe and opened the door wider.

  ‘They’re gone!’ he said, shocked. He turned to the four men. ‘My wife’s jewels. My medals. And cash.’

  ‘Like I said, nothing to do with us,’ said the man curtly. He turned to the other three and said, ‘Get those hoses out into the street and back on the engine.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ barked Walters, and he stood between the men and the door, barring their way. ‘My safe has been robbed and you’re the only people who’ve been in here. I insist on searching each of you.’

  The men stared at him, indignant.

  ‘You what!’ shouted one, the biggest and burliest. He dropped the hose he was holding and advanced on Walters. ‘Are you accusing us of nicking the stuff from your safe?’

  ‘As you ask, yes I am!’ retorted Walters. ‘You can prove your innocence by allowing me to search you all.’

  The men stared at one another, outrage writ large on their faces. The burly man scowled and turned back to Walters. ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek!’ he barked, and suddenly his fist flew out and struck the general hard on the side of the face, sending him down to the squelching carpet. ‘We risk our lives saving your bloody flat, and this is the thanks we get!’ He bent down over the fallen general, bringing his fist back to strike another blow.

  ‘Hold it, Joe!’ said the man in charge. ‘He’s learnt his lesson.’ As the man called Joe stepped back, still scowling, the man who’d stopped him glared at the general and at Phyllis. ‘Don’t think we won’t remember this,’ he said angrily. ‘Next time we get a call out here, you can handle it yourselves.’

  With that the four men left, dragging the hoses with them. General Walters pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘The thieving swine!’ he said. ‘They’re not going to get away with this. I’m going after them.’

  ‘No, Cedric!’ said Phyllis, and she grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back from the door. ‘There are four of them. You wouldn’t have a chance against them. Let the police handle it.’

  ‘The police!’ said Walters scornfully. ‘They’re not going to do anything. They’re too busy going around arresting people for breaking the blackout and other petty things.’

  ‘Breaking the blackout isn’t petty,’ said Phyllis. ‘It leads to loss of lives.’

  ‘Yes, alright,’ admitted Walters grumpily. He put his hand to the side of his face where a bruise was showing. ‘But they won’t do anything about this. They’ll just say there’s a war on and they’ve got more important things to deal with.’ He gave a vengeful scowl towards the stairs where the men had vanished. ‘But I know someone who’ll get something done about this. Those thievi
ng scum won’t get away with it!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday 3rd December 1940. 10 a.m.

  Detective Chief Inspector Edgar Walter Septimus Saxe-Coburg, accompanied by his detective sergeant, Ted Lampson, walked along the currently disused railway track of the Aldwych Underground station, deeper into the tunnel. Just three months before, this branch of the Piccadilly line to Holborn had been an active part of the London Underground system, but the Blitz in September changed all that.

  The Blitz had begun in early September, the intensive bombing by the Luftwaffe of London and Britain’s other major cities, but primarily London. Before that there’d been daytime bombing raids by the Luftwaffe, but the small Spitfires and Hurricanes from the airfields in Kent and Essex had kept most of them at bay during the period from mid-July until early September that became known as the Battle of Britain. The death toll had been high during the Battle of Britain, especially among the young fighter pilots who’d been sent up day after day to confront the giant German bombers and engage in aerial battles with their German fighter Messerschmitt escorts, but the death toll for the Germans had been even higher. Finally, the Germans had to admit that the RAF had defeated the Luftwaffe in these daytime attacks, so the Germans had switched to night-time attacks, when the small fighter planes could not defend the city.

  The docks in the East End had been among the first to suffer, the whole area ablaze, and then more and more of London had become a target. On 10th September, Buckingham Palace itself had been hit by a German bomb, proving that no one and nowhere was safe. The block of flats in Hampstead where Coburg and his wife, Rosa, had lived had been completely demolished during a raid. Fortunately for the couple, they had been out when it happened, but everyone else in the block who’d sought safety in an Anderson shelter in the grounds had been killed.

  Coburg and Rosa had relocated to another flat in central London, this time ensuring that it had a strong shelter in the basement.

  Coburg’s sergeant, Ted Lampson, a widower in his early thirties, lived in Somers Town, a major target area for the Luftwaffe because it was right next to Euston, St Pancras and King’s Cross stations, all main railway termini. For him and his ten-year-old son, Terry, Euston Square Underground station was their nearest shelter.

  At first there had been panic among Londoners when the Blitz began, then, as it went on night after night, and occasionally during the day, a kind of unhappy acceptance had settled in. Daylight raids were less frequent because the RAF were still battling in the skies above Kent, downing the giant German bombers when they could, while at the same time engaging in aerial dogfights with the German bombers’ Messerschmitt fighter escorts. Now, in early December, the bombing had been going on for fourteen weeks, with no apparent let-up. And life in the capital went on. Shops were open, although in the case of butchers’ and some grocers’, with limited supplies due to rationing. People still went to work. Coburg’s wife, Rosa, a well-known pianist and jazz singer, also worked part-time driving an ambulance for St John Ambulance. Nearly everyone volunteered to help the war effort as air raid wardens and auxiliary firemen to battle the blazes from the bombing. Many former soldiers and retired people joined the Home Guard, ready to resist the Germans when they invaded, as everyone expected them to do. Reports of German troopships and landing craft moored off the French coast just twenty-five miles from the Kent coast were common knowledge. It was not if the Germans launched their invasion, but when.

  Crime also carried on in the capital. The black market thrived in these days of rationing: sugar, bacon and especially petrol, along with many other products that were not freely available without coupons restricting how much anyone could buy at any one time: a limit of four ounces of bacon per person, and eight ounces each for sugar, butter and cheese, with meat purchases restricted to one shilling’s worth. As a result, butchers’ shops and warehouses had become prime targets for thieves.

  Murder, also, seemed to Coburg as bad as ever. Along with the daily count of dead bodies from the bombing came reports of dead bodies found in places where the bombs couldn’t reach. Like now, with the report of the body of a dead man discovered deep in one of the tunnels at Aldwych station, close to where the famous Elgin Marbles were being stored, following their removal from the British Museum.

  Although the electric current had been cut to the rails, it still powered the overhead and side lights in the walls of the tunnel, but the lighting was dim and they had to walk carefully to avoid stumbling over the rails and sleepers. Finally, they came to a long, low flatbed wagon on the tracks, on which lay a massive length of carved marble. Beyond that was a second identical flatbed wagon containing another length of marble, and then another, and another, each of them covered with a length of cloth.

  ‘The Elgin Marbles,’ said Coburg. ‘Or, more properly, the Parthenon Sculptures.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Lampson, impressed. ‘They’re enormous! How many of them are there?’

  ‘The whole thing is 246 feet long, when laid end to end,’ said Coburg. ‘Didn’t you see them when they were on display at the British Museum?’

  ‘I’ve never been to the British Museum,’ admitted Lampson.

  ‘Ted, I’m shocked,’ said Coburg. ‘It’s one of the greatest museums in the world, and you live within walking distance of it.’

  ‘Yeh, well, museums were never my thing,’ said Lampson. ‘They reminded me too much of school, which I was never fond of. If I had an afternoon off, I went to football. White Hart Lane.’ He looked at the lengths of carved marble. ‘They must be bloody heavy.’

  ‘A hundred tons, I’m told,’ said Coburg. ‘They were moved here at the start of September.’

  ‘How?’ asked Lampson.

  ‘A low-loader lorry from the British Museum to the London Transport depot at Lillie Bridge in Kensington, then transferred to rail wagons, and then here. It’s not the first time this station’s been used for hiding valuable treasures to keep them safe. In September 1917, because of the threat of German air raids during the First War, the National Gallery sent most of its paintings here to be stored, and they were kept here until December 1918.’

  ‘All this stuff’s more important than people, is it?’ said Lampson sourly. ‘I remember the scenes of people clamouring to get into the Tube stations when the Blitz started to try and get somewhere safe from the bombing, and the gates were locked and the people were actually beaten back to stop them coming in.’

  ‘I was told that was because the government were worried that once people came below ground to seek refuge, they wouldn’t go up top again, which would mean no workers,’ said Coburg. ‘No firemen, no plumbers, no bus drivers, no one to keep the city operating.’

  It had been the invasion of the Savoy Hotel by angry East Enders on 14th September that had changed things, reflected Coburg. Furious that the people of the East End were being killed in their hundreds by the German blitzkrieg because the public were barred from seeking safety in the Underground stations, but instead had been left to go to the street-level brick public shelters, which invariably collapsed when a bomb went off near one of them, a crowd of people from Stepney had descended on the Savoy, brought by the Savoy’s advertising campaign in which it boasted of its basement air raid shelter, extolling its virtues, its luxury, the guarantee of safety. The Savoy’s Swiss night manager, Willy Hofflin, had allowed them in and they spent the night in the hotel shelter. This invasion by the proletariat sent ripples of unease through the ruling classes, many of whom were at the Savoy that night, and shortly afterwards the government relented and allowed London’s Underground stations to be used as shelters.

  Aldwych station had been closed down as a passenger station early in September and electricity to the line disconnected to allow safe storage of the British Museum’s valuables, not just the Elgin Marbles but part of the British Museum’s collection of rare books and some oriental antiquities. Towards the end of the month, it had been handed over to the local authority, Westminster City Council, for use as a public air raid shelter, with people using the platforms and for 320 yards into the tunnel towards Holborn. It was estimated that two thousand, five hundred people sheltered in it. Most of them went back to the surface during the day, but there had still been a few people on the platforms when Coburg and Lampson arrived, surrounding themselves with chairs, mattresses and small tables, creating subterranean homes from home.