The dockhands paid scant attention to the man when he pulled his cart up alongside the ship a few minutes later. Dressed in a faded woolen coat and soiled trousers, a flat cap pulled low over his brow, he resembled dozens of other local paupers who survived by the odd job here and there. In this instance, it was an acted role, embellished by a failure to shave and a liberal dousing of cheap scotch on his clothes. When it was deemed time to perform, he made his presence known by advancing Dolly to the base of the gangway, effectively blocking its use.
“Get that nag out of the way,” cursed a red-faced lieutenant overseeing the loading.
“Aye got a d’livry for the ’Ampshire ,” the man growled in a Cockney accent.
“Let me see your papers,” the lieutenant demanded.
The deliveryman reached inside his jacket and handed the officer a crumpled page of watermarked stationery. The lieutenant frowned as he read it, then slowly shook his head.
“This is not a proper bill of lading,” he said, quietly eyeing the deliveryman.
“It’s wot the general gave me. That and a fiver,” the man replied with a wink.
The lieutenant walked around and surveyed the crate, which was roughly the size of a coffin. On the top was an address stenciled in black paint:
PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL NAVY
TO THE ATTENTION OF SIR LEIGH HUNT
SPECIAL ENVOY TO THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE
C/O CONSULATE OF GREAT BRITAIN
PETROGRAD, RUSSIA
“Humph,” the officer muttered, eyeing the paperwork again. “Well, it is signed by the general. Very well,” he said, passing the paper back. “You, there,” he barked, turning to a nearby stevedore. “Help get that crate aboard. Then get this wagon out of here.”
Rope was strung around the crate, and a shipboard derrick yanked it into the sky, swinging it over the rail and depositing it in the forward hold. The deliveryman gave a mock salute to the lieutenant, then slowly drove the horse off the dock and out of the navy yard. Turning down a nearby dirt road, he ambled past a small port warehouse district that ended at an expanse of open farmland. A mile farther down the road, he turned into an uneven drive and parked the cart beside a dilapidated cottage. An old man with a game leg limped out of a nearby barn.
“Make your delivery?” he asked the driver.
“I did. Thank you for the use of your cart and horse,” the man replied, pulling a ten-pound note out of his wallet and handing it to the farmer.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s more than my horse is worth,” the farmer stammered, holding the note in his hands as if it were a baby.
“And a fine horse it is,” the man replied, giving Dolly a farewell pat on the neck. “Good day,” he said to the farmer, tipping his hat without another word, then walking up the drive.
He turned down the road and hiked a few minutes until detecting the sound of an automobile headed his way. A blue Vauxhall touring sedan rounded a corner, then slowed to a stop beside him. The deliveryman stepped closer as the rear door of the sedan opened and he climbed in. A staid-looking man in the attire of an Anglican priest slid across the backseat to make room. He stared at the deliveryman with a shroud of apprehension masking his dull gray eyes, then reached for a decanter of brandy mounted to the seat back. Pouring a healthy shot into a crystal tumbler, he passed it to the deliveryman, then directed the driver to proceed down the road.
“The crate is aboard?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes, Father,” the deliveryman replied in a sarcastic tone of reverence. “They bought the phony bill of lading and loaded the crate into the forward hold.” There was no longer any trace of a Cockney accent as he spoke. “In seventy-two hours, you can bid farewell to your illustrious general.”
The words seemed to trouble the vicar, though they were what he had anticipated. He silently reached into his overcoat and retrieved an envelope stuffed thick with banknotes.
“As we agreed. Half now, half after the… event,” he said, passing over the envelope as his words fell away.
The deliveryman smiled as he eyed the thick stack of currency. “I wonder if the Germans would pay this much to sink a ship and murder a general,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to be working for the Kaiser, now, would you?”
The minister firmly shook his head. “No, this is a theological matter. Had you been able to locate the document, this would not have been necessary.”
“I searched the manor three times. If it was there, I would have found it.”
“As you have told me.”
“You are certain that it was carried aboard?”
“We’ve learned of a meeting on the general’s schedule with the Father Superior of the Russian Orthodox Church in Petrograd. There can be little doubt as to the purpose. The document must be aboard. It will be destroyed along with him, and so the secret shall die.”
The Vauxhall’s tires touched wet cobblestone as they entered the outskirts of Portsmouth. The driver navigated toward the city center, passing block after block of tall brick row houses. Reaching a main crossroads, he turned into the rear driveway of a nineteenth-century stone church labeled St. Mary’s as the rain began to fall with intensity.
“I’d like you to drop me at the railway station,” the deliveryman said, observing the large motorcar bisect a churchyard cemetery and pull to a stop behind the rectory.
“I was asked to drop off a sermon,” the minister replied. “Won’t take more than a moment. Why don’t you join me?”
The deliveryman suppressed a yawn as he looked out the rain-streaked window. “No, I think I’ll wait here and keep dry.”
“Very well. We’ll return shortly.”
The minister and driver walked away, leaving the deliveryman to count his blood money. As he attempted to tally up the Bank of England notes, he had trouble reading the numbers and realized his vision was blurring. He felt a wave of fatigue sweep over him and quickly tucked the money away and lay down on the seat to rest. Though it seemed like hours, it was only a few minutes later when a mist of cold water struck his face and he pried open his heavy eyelids. The stern face of the minister looked down upon him amid a shower of rain. His brain told him that his body was moving, but there was no feeling in his legs. He focused his blurry eyes enough to see the driver was carrying his legs, while the minister dragged him by the arms. A mute sense of panic rang within his skull, and he willed himself to retrieve a Webley Bulldog pistol from his pocket. But his limbs refused to respond. The brandy, he thought with momentary clarity. It was the brandy.
A canopy of green leaves filled his vision as he was carried beneath a grove of towering oak trees. The minister’s face still swayed above him, a sullen mask of indifference illuminated by two frigid eyes. Then the face fell away, or rather he did. He heard more than felt his body drop into a trench, splashing down hard into a muddy puddle. Flat on his back, he gazed up at the minister, who stood high over him with a faint aura of guilt.
“Forgive us our sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he heard the minister say solemnly. “These we take to the grave.”
The back side of a shovel appeared, followed by a clump of soggy dirt that fell and bounced off his chest. Another shovelful of dirt tumbled down, and then another.
His body was paralyzed and his voice frozen, but his mind still operated with reason. With crushing horror, he fully grasped that he was being buried alive. He fought again to move his limbs, but there was no response. As the dirt piled high within his grave, his screams of terror blared only within his mind, until his last breath was painfully snuffed out.