The Ninth Circle – The Twelfth Night Massacre Part 3
6th January 1916 – 01:00am
A hospital at night is a confusing place, filled with hot and freezing rooms, empty and bursting corridors, silent and screaming bodies.
Far from the usual crowd, behind several locked doors and secured corridors, and several dozen grey-faced and angry men, a small family gathering took place outside a sickroom.
And it was small. Over a tumultuous century, the Radcliffe family still only comprised of two sofas of men and women. The children might have padded it out a bit more but thankfully they were abed and entirely ignorant of the events of the past evening.
Lady Elizabeth Roberts was in clear command, having arrived thirty minutes before with her husband Lord Frederick Roberts, son of the Minister for Armaments Rodger had been sat with but a few hours ago.
Then there was Sophia, whose husband the Duke of Wellington was away in France. She was sat with Jane, and her husband Lord Harold Spencer, newly minted heir to the family estate, and Lucy, the youngest, who had just completed her reading at Cambridge.
Even so, Rodger thought as he finally made it to the sitting room, they were short two members. Although thankfully, not permanently.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said quietly. His throat, much like the rest of him, was beginning to seize up after the pressures of the day.
“Rodger,” Eliza placed down her pen. The rebuke was gentle but obvious.
“Apparently I was needed to negotiate what information the King would be giving out in his speech after he’s done in there.” Rodger was no longer holding any artifice of title and so allowed himself to roll his eyes. “Since my opinion apparently matters of late.”
“It will from now on,” Frederick noted, setting his book aside. “You stepped up last night in front of the entire political establishment, and they listened. That will not go unnoticed by any of them. Especially as you don’t follow politics or any party.”
“I suppose David will get the same,” Rodger sighed, dropped next to Lucy Radcliffe and squeezing her arm in greeting.
“Are you alright?”
He smiled at her. “Dreadful.”
She leant against him. “They’ve been in there for 45 minutes.”
“He’s awake then?”
“Barely,” Eliza replied from the other sofa. “He has a running fever, high blood pressure, shortness of breath and can maintain focus for only a few minutes at a time. The longest was 4 minutes, 32 seconds.”
Rodger nodded. “Not enough to actually discuss much with him then. A genuine mercy visit between old friends.”
Eliza’s face softened slightly. “He’s the King’s oldest confidant, godfather to his heir and greatest supporter. Having responsibility does not make you less human.”
Rodger sighed again. “It was required to stay functioning and ensure-”
“I am aware,” she interrupted. “Nonetheless…do not do that again.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Lord Harold, who had been squirming slightly throughout this interview, spoke up. “How was the Earl-eh…my father?”
Rodger glanced over. “He seemed as well as could be expected. Certainly, to his credit, better put together than much of the Tory lot.” And then, because he hadn’t actually seen either his sister Jane or Harold since Christmas, “My condolences again for your uncle. He was a good man.”
“For a Whig?” Harold lifted the ghost of a smile.
“For a politician,” Rodger did the same.
It was tragic but not unexpected. The loss of his son in the trenches had hit the old earl hard, and yet Rodger found himself far more empathetic with the new Earl Spencer, who was actually living the horror he himself had just put down.
The war had taken a lot from them all.
“Any idea on the Duke?”
“He stormed out with Uncle Herbert some time ago,” Lucy offered.
Rodger sighed yet again. “Terrific.”
…
In another part of London, in a small room suitable for the Man in the Closet, destruction was being planned.
Kitchener watched with no small amount of concern and interest as various men came in, took their quiet assignment, and left. The Duke was an automaton full of steam at present, and despite all the energy being exerted, still looked as though he might blow his top at any moment.
Till, suddenly, he went deathly still.
“We found him, sir.”
“Thank you, James. Bring him in.”
An elderly gentlemen who looked to be as old as the Duke himself was brought in by his men, although for the first time they all appeared somewhat uncertain and uncomfortable. Kitchener peered at the newcomer’s face and was surprised to find he recognised him.
“But surely that is-”
“Henry, yes. My driver,” the Duke said shortly. “And until last night, my good friend, confidant, and former chief of staff.”
Kitchener started, and slowly sat back down in his chair. So…it was that seriousness. The Duke was openly discussing his private information network, that was considerably linked to the three intelligence operations of the British government. None of which, of course, officially and most assuredly, existed.
“Oh shit.”
The Duke glanced at him before returning to the man sat across from him.
“Why Harry? What on earth compelled you to do that?”
Henry gave Kitchener a considering look, and then looked back at his old friend and employer. “Do you want him in on this?”
“I have no choice…not after all this. Now,” the Duke’s voice crackled, “speak…please.”
Henry paused to drink some water, and then began.
“It seems that, in the early stages of 1914, a pair of German prison guards got the idea into their heads that they could profit from the…higher valued prisoners under their care. It just so happened that they had made friends with a particularly crooked member of the Red Cross, and the three of them began a scheme of mild extortion, bribery and benefits for various French, Dutch and English families with children in their…care.”
The Duke shut his eyes and slowly groaned, but flicked a finger to tell him to continue.
“Of course, it was not long before they were found out, but unfortunately, it seems to have been by a single ambitious German Intelligence agent, who hid them again and turned the operation into a rather more sinister blackmailing operation against those families found to be susceptible to such, as well as those rather wealthier and more influential. In such a way, they found themselves into the pockets and papers of various government officials, nobles and men of public standing in all three countries…and myself. Harry and George were in their camp, you see. And so, my grandchildren were used against me purely because I was, publicly at least, a servant of the Radcliffe family.”
“Even then, the prison, the Red Cross, and German Intelligence were beginning to grow suspicious and it was only a matter of time before one of the blackmailed broke, and so, the conspirators planned a final move to cover their tracks, spook their victims into permanent silence, and in such a way their superiors could not punish them.”
“Bastards,” Kitchener hissed.
“Another agent was contacted, one of the few spies the Germans had in Britain. In exchange for various cuts of the profits and an escape route, he contacted various…collectives…in the realm that had a grudge against the government and who were looking to bring about collapse, change or peace.”
The Duke wrote something on paper and passed it over.
“Yes. All of those, and a few more. After being shown that they had powerful backers, including unnamed but indicated friends in Parliament, most of those groups elected to act with the conspiracy. I was then told to provide all information regarding various events upcoming in the official calender, and I was well placed to take over security for the City Dinner. I personally switched the bottles used, and paid a stable hand to keep a horse ready.”
“A single boy?”
“Yes.”
“He is the only one who would know your name and face?”
“Who isn’t one of us…yes.”
“Go on.”
“Things went awry, as I hoped. You were delayed, and so the evening could not begin, whilst all the figureheads and most involved in the plot were gathering in London. It would have been simple enough to slip my German minder and alert you but…”
“Asquith wanted to discuss that hospital visit,” the Duke groaned again. Happenstance and misfortune, the bane of Mankind in Power throughout the ages.
“The Protestors grew impatient and began their riot, which spooked the agent into running, and the bottles had already gone out and so I fled myself.”
Kitchener had watched the Duke’s face glow hot from rage, recrimination, shame, shock, anger again, and finally greyed in contemplation.
“What is to be done, then?” he said cautiously. “We have the majority of the British side of this…conspiracy…in custody. The boy no doubt can be recovered, and perhaps this Germa too. But the prisoners…”
“Oh, they shall be fine,” the Duke interrupted. “The German government will ensure that, and no doubt will know soon enough of their own, apparently unwitting, involvement of this…calamity.”
“We reveal all then, and show we have captured the ringleaders and can safely blame Germany on the rest.”
Everyone else in the room turned to stare at him as though he were mad.
“That would potentially compromise the Secret Service. The reputations of several Members of Parliament, Entente officials, other important persons of three countries, and cause untold panic in both London and the country at large.”
Kitchener glared at him. “You cannot cover up something of this magnitude. Not when there are obviously guilty parties that we can finger, and not when it would allow Germany, however incidentally they were involved, to get away with literal murder.”
“And when we blame Germany for this? Make them the pariah state of Europe, and permanently tar their reputation internationally? Do you not think in retaliation they will release every shred of information their industrious little blackmailers have acquired over the past year? Damaging the government, the nation, our allies, and revealing that not only do we have an intelligence service, but we operate on British home soil? Henry, what is the worst thing they are aware of, so far as you know?”
“Well…they know about the Asquith affair-”
“Shit.”
“WHAT!”
Kitchener did stand now. “Tell me.”
The Duke sighed. “The late Prime Minister had…a rather torrid and passionate romance with a certain Venetia Stanley. Henry presumably covered for them as a driver?” The old man nodded. “He was in the habit of…biblical relations whilst in transit. He was also…in the unfortunate habit of passing around important and secret documents.” The Duke paused, and turned back to Henry. “Would that be including that mysterious disappearance of the early Shell Crisis reports?”
Kitchener's face drained of colour as Henry affirmed.
“I…I…” the knowledge his own papers had been so freely handled, and potentially handed to foreign agents, and that the murdered Asquith had acted so poorly… He rallied. “We cannot deny the truth.”
“We will do our very best to suppress it however,” the Duke shot back. “Inevitably, certain aspects of this sorry affair…that is…” he realised the poor choice of words, “conspiracy…situation…whatever…shall come to light. By which time I pray we are all long dead, and this shall only ruin ancient reputations that no longer truly matter politically or diplomatically. At the very least, most of this cannot leak until after the war…and if and when it does, I shall take full responsibility. I’ll no be dead first. Bury me with it, if you must.”
Kitchener was beginning to understand the terrible reason why he had been brought into this meeting. It was not to organise a response. It was to maintain one…one he passionately did not agree with.
“The government has to be told about this. His Majesty. And what about the Germans?”
“If the Germans know what’s good for them, they’ll bury it too. And they can bury their side a lot more thoroughly than we can…whilst retaining receipts,” the Duke replied grimly. “As for our side…the uncertainty of the current day works in our favour. We can make the executive decision by ourselves, leaving everyone else officially…and so far as possible, personally, unaware.”
“I will not be party to-”
“Oh yes you will,” the Duke interrupted. “Stamp and shout all you wish at the injustice of it all, by all means. But when you leave this room, you are a committed participant.”
The lingering threat otherwise available was not voiced.
Kitchener stood and placed both hands on the desk before the Duke. “Listen to me carefully, you old bastard. Your organisation is compromised, your secrets nearly killed your son and did kill several fine gentlemen.” He flinched away from the knowledge of what one of them was actually doing. “Your treason is no less treacherous than this one,” he indicated Henry. “This dark mystery shall remain as such, but you are also going to vanish. Fuck off back to your estate and rot there, old man. Clean up your organisation and then shut it down. You and it can no longer be trusted with the security of the United Kingdom, and perhaps never should have been.”
He stood upright and made his way towards the door. “Under protest, this case must remain unanswered. But should anything arise, I will bury you alive and take pleasure in doing so. And if you dare threaten me again, I will shoot you myself.”
He opened the door and had very nearly shut it behind him when the quiet voice of the Duke came out. “I have your letters, you know.”
…
6th January 1916 – 14:00 pm
Rodger sat by the bedside of his father, reading the afternoon papers aloud to him.
“Oh, most unfortunate,” he said, upon coming to the end of the major articles before the sports. “They’ve recovered the body of some poor lad from the Thames. It seems he slipped during the night.”
