Four years of war, followed by three of intensive training for the Metropolitan Police and a further year on secondment to the Calcutta Police, had left Joe accustomed to an exclusively male working environment. He didn’t always manage to tailor his language for a female audience. Amalthea Jameson graciously affected not to notice his lapses.
The announcement that he was to be granted, on taking up his post again after his return from India, the services of a full-time personal secretary had been surprising. The two other officers of his rank, uniformed and in the later years of their service, were accorded no such privilege. Even more surprising was the failure of these fellow officers to take offence at the blatant preferment of the young upstart. A knowing smirk and a pitying shake of the head spoke volumes to Joe. They didn’t envy him.
‘I visited the general yesterday in St George’s. He’s doing well,’ he offered in reassurance.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been following events in the press. With no file available in our office, one gets one’s information where one may …’ She gave an apologetic smile, but her eyes accused him of secrecy.
‘Depressing stuff, Jameson, in the papers, and usually exaggerated. Believe them and you’d be running into a Russian Bolshevik or a Latvian anarchist round every corner. You’d never venture out,’ he reassured her lightly.
‘But that’s three attempted murders now in as many days, I gather. Three attacks on three military gentlemen,’ she persisted. ‘And each with — I wonder if it had occurred to you, sir? — a different modus operandi. Puzzling, that. Don’t you agree? The first, I understand, was no more than an assault with a blunt instrument — a cosh? — the second with a knife and this last with a pistol. And all unsuccessful!’ She gave a scoffing laugh. ‘How much practice can a self-respecting perpetrator need? What a bungler is at work, one might conclude.’
‘Not, perhaps, if a fourth attempt were to come off tomorrow, Miss Jameson. Even I can detect a certain escalation in the level of violence used. And the one vital feature the victims have in common. But thank you for your observation.’
His reprimands usually bounced off the shield of her smiling compliance but on this occasion she did not hurry to agree with him. In a tone which signalled sorrow rather than anger she said simply: ‘They’re here, aren’t they? Here with their bombs and their bullets. Spreading terror among us.’
‘There were over one hundred reported violent incidents in the Metropolitan area over the last week, Miss Jameson. Three of the victims happen to be known to you personally and you draw a dramatic conclusion from this slight evidence.’ He paused for a second before admitting: ‘But I have to say, I happen to agree with you. The editors of our daily newspapers don’t share your social connections and inside knowledge and they haven’t yet put two and two together. I’d … we’d … prefer that they didn’t. Keep it under your hat, will you? With the present undermanning in the force, I doubt we could contain the effects of an anti-Irish backlash tearing through London. Open warfare on the streets? It’s not inconceivable.’
She nodded. ‘Understood, sir. I’ll put this into your in-tray to await your return.’ She made to scoop the file on his desk.