The Falcon & the Viper

By Clive Du Cros

A bizarre aerial duel to the death takes place in the clear blue skies over Kent during the Battle of Britain in 1940. Some seventy years later, a group of aviation enthusiasts discover a Hurricane fighter buried deep under the wetlands of Romney Marsh. The wreckage of the crashed fighter gives up secrets that lead to a trail of treachery, corruption and murder in the highest echelons of the present day British government. Charlie Britton, a tough, no-holds barred investigative journalist, helped by cub reporter Samantha Cox, slowly unravel the intricate web of clues and evidence and discover a plot to overthrow the new, popular UK government elected after the chaos of Brexit. Should the conspirators succeed, then the United Kingdom will be annexed by a Germany once again ruled by ruthless, fanatical Nazis. The fascists are determined to achieve what the Fatherland set out but failed to do in 1940, and will not rest until all of Europe is finally under their control. In a desperate race against time, Charlie and Samantha try to stop an assassination attempt crucial to the conspirators' plan of overthrowing the UK government, when they stumble across an attack of even greater magnitude by ISIS jihads. An attack that if successful will wreak havoc on the City of London, killing thousands of citizens and plunging the country into economic disaster for years to come.

A bizarre aerial duel to the death takes place in the clear blue skies over Kent during the Battle of Britain in 1940. Some seventy years later, a group of aviation enthusiasts discover a Hurricane fighter buried deep under the wetlands of Romney Marsh. The wreckage of the crashed fighter gives up secrets that lead to a trail of treachery, corruption and murder in the highest echelons of the present day British government.

Charlie Britton, a tough, no-holds barred investigative journalist, helped by cub reporter Samantha Cox, slowly unravel the intricate web of clues and evidence and discover a plot to overthrow the new, popular UK government elected after the chaos of Brexit. Should the conspirators succeed, then the United Kingdom will be annexed by a Germany once again ruled by ruthless, fanatical Nazis. The fascists are determined to achieve what the Fatherland set out but failed to do in 1940, and will not rest until all of Europe is finally under their control.

In a desperate race against time, Charlie and Samantha try to stop an assassination attempt crucial to the conspirators' plan of overthrowing the UK government, when they stumble across an attack of even greater magnitude by ISIS jihads. An attack that if successful will wreak havoc on the City of London, killing thousands of citizens and plunging the country into economic disaster for years to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Du Cros
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393249979

Book preview

The Falcon & the Viper

Clive Du Cros

Published by Clive Du Cros, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE FALCON & THE VIPER

First edition. December 17, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 Clive Du Cros.

Written by Clive Du Cros.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

The Falcon & the Viper

Dedicated to The Kent Battle of Britain Museum Trust, Hawkinge, Kent.

Where the volunteers preserve the artefacts and moving personal accounts of 'The Few', keeping alive the memory of those who gave our country the freedom it enjoys today.

Prologue

RAF Hawkinge, 15 September 1940  

'It’s a squadron scramble, sir!'

'Don't be daft, Jones! We've only just got back down and the erks haven't had time to finish arming and re-fuelling them yet.' snapped Squadron Leader Dennis Long.

'But Group's insisting that we get everything up right away, even the training aircraft, sir.' replied the young corporal sitting behind his desk.

'Here, give me the phone.'

As the corporal reached up with the telephone handset, a loud crack made them both dive for the floor as the office window exploded into shards of razor sharp glass. A cannon shell whistled across the office and thumped into the wall opposite, bringing down a clock hanging on it with a crash to the floor.

'Bloody hell!' cursed the squadron leader, picking himself up and wiping away blood running into his eye from a cut on his forehead. A loud explosion boomed outside. Looking out of the broken remains of the window, he saw a Hurricane fighter on its disposal burning fiercely, sending a mushrooming cloud of orange flame and oily black smoke into the sky after enemy tracer had bullets found its fuel tank.

Squadron Leader Long grabbed his flying helmet hanging from the back of the chair and ran from his office into the crew room, where he saw through the outer door the other pilots already outside running hell for leather across the grass towards their parked fighters. In his haste to join them, he collided with two young pilot officers still in the room who had only arrived on the station that morning.

'How many hours on Hurricanes?' he shouted.

'Seven, sir.' replied the taller of the two officers.

'And you?'

'Me sir, er, five.'

'Christ, is that all?' he retorted, wondering what the training squadrons were playing at.

'Don't just stand there gawping, get outside and get one up, and stick to me like glue!'

'Yes, sir.' they replied, colliding with each other in their haste to get out of the door.

Dennis Long pushed them through the door and ran towards his Hurricane, as a pair of Messerschmitt 109 fighters rocketed low overhead firing their guns, creating havoc in their wake.

'Oh strewth, we've been well and truly caught with our pants down!' Long muttered to himself as he approached his fighter.

'What the devil?' he spluttered, as he saw a pilot already seated inside.

In a Nissan hut nearby, a young pilot picked himself up after being attacked from behind and knocked to the floor. He saw his assailant, the Czech pilot he had befriended in France during the Dunkirk evacuation, run out of the door clutching a briefcase. He realised now why the Czech had been asking too many questions. While searching the foreigner's room earlier he had found a briefcase under the bunk bed, inside a change of clothes and toiletries, a map of southern England and a miniature camera. The map had notes written in German but most damning of all, had been the operating manual of the secret radar fitted only to the squadron leader's Hurricane.

Furious that treachery had repaid his friendship, he realised now the Czech was a spy and that he could fly to enemy occupied France just twenty miles away across the Channel. He must do all in his power to stop him. Rushing outside, he looked up in surprise at the German aircraft attacking the airfield and then saw the spy sitting in the cockpit of the squadron leader's fighter. As he ran towards it, the engine burst into life and it taxied away. Dodging bullets from the German fighters and flying shrapnel from the airfield defences, he ran towards his own Hurricane parked close by. He knew it was the only sensible course of action, for if he stopped to raise the alarm in the mayhem and confusion caused by the attack, the spy would be long gone. He shouted to a corporal sheltering under a three-ton truck parked close by.

'Plug the bloody starter trolley in!'

'Yes sir!' replied the man who rolled out and ran to the portable starter battery by the fighter.

Leaping up on the wing and climbing into the cockpit, the pilot reached forward and grabbed his flying helmet hanging from the rear-view mirror. A flight sergeant climbed up on the wing, helped him to strap in and shouted above the din going on around them.

'Make sure you get one of those bastards, sir, they've just shot up the NAFFI canteen van with Mollie still inside!'

As the flight sergeant jumped down a row of bullets stitched across the ground in front of him, kicking up fragments of grass and earth. The pilot officer flicked on the magneto switches and with two fingers stabbed the start and boost buttons on the instrument panel. The engine barked into life and he waved at the corporal to pull the parking chocks away from the main wheels, as his quarry in the other Hurricane bumped across the field on his take-off run. Opening the throttle lever with the control stick held back and using the rudder pedals to weave from side to side through the wreckage of burning aircraft and vehicles, he saw the other Hurricane climb into the air, its undercarriage slowly retracting into the wings.

Just as his own Hurricane reached flying speed, another one taxied across right in front on a collision course. He pushed the throttle to the firewall, pulled the stick back and staggered into the air, the undercarriage wheels narrowly missing the pilot's head in the aircraft's cockpit below. Raising the gear with the fighter shuddering on the verge of a stall, he kept the throttle lever thrust forward, the engine screaming under emergency boost power. The large Dowty-Rotol propeller bit the air and with a sigh of relief from its pilot, the Hurricane climbed up over the boundary fence of the airfield. Suddenly, a stream of cannon shells flew over the Hurricane's port wing and a quick look in the rear-view mirror confirmed a yellow-nosed Messerschmitt 109 close behind, a deadly reminder of the hostile skies around him. Thrusting the control stick hard over and stamping on the rudder pedal putting in opposite rudder, he slide-slipped the Hurricane and the surprised German pilot rocketed past. In the distance, he spotted the other Hurricane climbing away towards the coast in the direction of Hythe. The young pilot knew he risked blowing the engine up under the increased strain of the emergency boost, but he must catch the other Hurricane and stop him crossing the Channel. Scanning the sky around and behind he found it clear of enemy fighters, but in the blind spot below his tail, the pilot of a third Hurricane was manoeuvring into a firing position. 

In a sandbagged observation post nestling on the cliff tops above Hythe, two elderly civil defence volunteers looked up as the trio of Hurricane fighters climbed in line above them.

'Reckon they be 79 Squadron boys out of Hawkinge, Bert and judging by all the smoke that's rising over there, it looks like Jerries' giving the airfield a right old pasting again!'

'I reckon you be right, Jack. They're probably gaining height to catch the buggers on their way back home. It's been a while since Jerry attacked the airfield, though. I thought they were leaving the airfields alone now and concentrating on attacking London.' replied Bert.

'It's all a bit worrying, I hope it's not the start of the invasion.' said Jack, casting a wary eye out over the Channel toward France.

The rat-tat-tat of Browning machine guns sounded above as one of the Hurricanes opened fire on the one in front, which immediately broke left into a tight evasive turn.

'Christ, they're started shooting at each other!' exclaimed Bert in surprise, turning to the other.

'What the devil's all that about then?'

The two observers looked back up as the Hurricanes wheeled and turned, trying to get on each other's tail.

'Silly buggers, they're supposed to be shooting the enemy down, not their bloody selves!

In the skies above, the Czech pilot had just banked his fighter into a tighter, wing-wrenching turn, expecting to see a Messerschmitt in the mirror. Instead, he saw a Hurricane with guns blazing close behind, trying to get inside his turn.

'Scheisse!' he cursed in German and realised the game was up, but he would get the fighter to his comrades in France or die in the attempt. With the radar equipment and the secret documents in the briefcase stashed under the seat, he knew it could make all the difference to the battle. Both Hurricanes twisted and turned as they jostled to get into a better firing position on the other's tail as the third Hurricane joined the fight. The outcome would rely on the skill of the best pilot, as the three aircraft were equally matched in performance and manoeuvrability.

Part I

Chapter 1

The two friends raced each other down the hill to school in Dover from their homes perched high in the hamlet of Westcliffe, with its majestic views over the English Channel. The boys, in their early teens with long legs and endless stamina, ran neck and neck along the cobbled Lower Fore Street, splashing through large puddles remaining from the previous night's gales that had battered the town. As they entered the school gates, Anthony Barker barged his friend Johnny Faulkner aside, who cried out in protest but caught up as they ran across the playground and through the grand stone portico of St Christopher's school. Inside, they collided with an imposing figure in a black gown striding purposely along the corridor. A sheaf of papers the master had been holding fluttered like falling leaves from a windswept tree to the floor.

'Faulkner, Barker! How many times have I told you not to run inside the school buildings?' snapped Mr Thomas, the headmaster, in his lilted Welsh tongue. He grabbed both the youngsters by their ears and gave them a hard tweak, resulting in a howl of pain from Johnny and a loud squeal from Anthony.

'Pick those papers up now and report to me after morning assembly for your punishment, bechgyn.' he ordered.

The boys gathered up the scattered papers, handed them back to the master and made their way to the assembly hall for morning prayers. Joining the other pupils inside, the dread of their imminent punishment was brought home by the lines of the first hymn:

'Be still, my soul the Lord is on my side.

With patience bear my cross of grief and pain...' 

Johnny Faulkner, a tall lad with tousled, fair hair looked up at the ornate wall above the stage, decorated with a large polished mahogany plaque that recorded in neat gold script the names of former boys of the school killed in the last war and earlier conflicts. Anthony Barker eyed the many oil paintings in heavy, gilded frames covering another wall of past headmasters, who stared sternly back down at him.

Assembly finished and the other boys went to their classes as Johnny and Anthony made their way to the headmaster's study, where they received six strokes of the best administered by a strong arm with a thin willow cane. The rest of the day was spent uncomfortably on chairs behind their desks learning about Roman emperors, mathematical equations and elementary chemistry.

Their sports master, Mr Windsor, who instructed the boys on the finer points of sprinting during games sessions on the school playing fields, had encouraged the boys' obvious passion for running. He was so impressed with their athletic prowess that he had entered them in sprint events in the All England School's Championships, to be held at Stamford Bridge stadium in London on the first week of the new term. He thought they might do rather well.

At the end of what had started as a bad day, the boys' spirits soared when Mr Windsor told them he had selected them to represent the school at the championships. The headmaster had agreed, for the good of the school, but on the stipulation that they were to be on their best behaviour at all times during the competition. The boys ran back up the steep hill to their homes in Westcliffe, eager to tell their respective parents the good news.

Anthony Barker lived with his parents, Lord and Lady Barker and younger sister, Miranda in a large medieval manor house in Westcliffe. The family preferred the house instead of living in the cold, draughty interior of Walmer Castle, to which Lord Barker was entitled as Warden of the Cinque Ports. The two friends had made a secret passage long ago through the thick conifer hedge separating the property where Johnny lived with his father Hugh Faulkner, mother Janet and younger sister Catherine, named Sea View for its commanding views over Dover and across the Strait of Dover. Johnny's father Hugh was the harbour master in the port of Dover, after many years commanding one of the ferries that made regular crossings to France and back.  

At the end of the summer term, the boys enjoyed their holidays spending days on the clifftops, bumping their bikes over potholes along the narrow, winding paths and playing on a wide, flat area on the edge of the highest cliff.  On a clear day, the coastline of France stood out on the horizon. The remains of an old lookout tower stood on the spot, built in earlier times when others had seen history in the making, such as William the Conqueror's invasion fleet sailing towards them. One of a long line of beacons stretching along the southern coast of England, the tower had later warned the ships waiting at Dover of the approach of the Spanish Armada, with Sir Francis Drake's flotilla of ships in pursuit. The strong updraft rising along the face of the cliff was ideal for the boys to fly their kites and various model aircraft they had built. Shouting in delight, their imaginations ran riot as the flying machines danced around the skies.

One fine summer's day, the boys were playing on the clifftop as usual. A Handley Page airliner droned low overhead on its way to the aerodrome of Le Touquet in France as a small collier puffing voluminous black clouds of smoke from its tall funnel sailed towards Dover harbour.

'I'm going to be a fighter pilot when I get older.' said Johnny, looking at the aeroplane above.

'Me too!' replied his friend. 'And I bet I shoot down more enemy planes than you ever will, Faulkner!'

'No you won't and I will win more races than you in the school athletics championship next week.'

'You don't stand a chance of beating me!' cried Anthony.

'C'mon, I'll race you back home.'

Anthony got up, jumped on his bike and pedalled away.

'Rotter!' shouted Johnny after him, grabbing the model he had been flying and running to his bike. 'That's another false start you've made, Barker!'

The following morning, Johnny and Anthony stood in a small group of excited pupils on the platform of Dover's Priory Station. Their journey to London was about to begin and farthest from the boys' minds was the athletics championship they would take part in. Instead, the boys were staring in awe at the steaming, snorting monster standing before them. Resplendent in its livery of green and black enamelled coachwork etched with fine yellow coach lines, The Lord Nelson hissed clouds of steam and belched black, sooty smoke from its funnel, standing in all its glory alongside the platform in front of the ten Pullman coaches coupled behind. Flagship of Southern Railway's fleet of continental boat trains, it was the carriage of the rich and famous plying between London and Dover for the Channel crossing by ferry to France. The Mayor, the governors of St Christopher's School and other civic dignitaries of Dover had purchased the tickets for the trip to London, in recognition of the proud fact that the boys would represent the town in the forthcoming national championships. 

The schoolmasters ushered the boys into the plush carriages reserved for them and reaching up, they placed their small suitcases and bags in the overhead luggage racks. Pulling down the windows, the boys leaned out, waiting eagerly for the black and green monster to steam out of the station. Johnny waved to his parents standing on the platform who waved back as Anthony looked down on Jenkins, the uniformed chauffeur who had brought him to the station in his father's Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. The carriage jolted forward as The Lord Nelson took up the slack in the couplings, and with hissing clouds of steam, the chuff, chuff, chuff of smoke billowing from the funnel and the screech of spinning wheels on steel rails began its journey. Johnny and Anthony leaned further out of the window in excitement, but squealed in pain as their sports master hauled them back in by their ears. 

The Lord Nelson gathered speed, the noise of the clackerty-clack of the wheels over the joints in the rails increasing as the train thundered through tunnels and cuttings, over viaducts and bridges, past villages and towns in the beautiful Kent countryside.

'How fast do you reckon we're going, Anthony?' asked Johnny.

'Must be well over a hundred and fifty miles an hour!' said Anthony, looking out of the window at the telephone posts and signal gantries whizzing by.

'Stop making rash statements, Barker!' snapped Mr Windsor. 'I happen to know the distance from Dover to Victoria Station is one hundred miles and it will take us an hour and forty minutes to get there. So work out the average speed that we are travelling, quickly now!'

Anthony frowned and started to work out the equation as Johnny, quick as a flash, calculated the answer.

'Without taking into account starting and stopping at each end, its fifty-four miles per hour, sir.'

'Very good Faulkner, I seem to recall Mr Symns, your math's master singing your praises in the staff room.' congratulated the sports master while scowling at Anthony, who was still trying to work it out.

'But if you want me to sing your praises, you'd better win some races at the championships!'

Before long, The Lord Nelson was past the industrial suburbs of London and puffed into Victoria station, pulling to a halt with the dull clanging of the rolling stock's buffers. The teachers shepherded the pupils out of the coach and down the stairs to the underground station to catch the next train on the District line to Fulham Broadway, their last stop of the journey. Leaving the station, the party crossed the Broadway and checked in to a small hotel for the duration of the championships. Sitting down at the tables in the small dining room and tucking in to some delicious cottage pie, the escorting masters sighed with relief that they had all the boys there in one piece and not lost anyone on the way.

The week flew by until the loud crack of the starter's handgun on the last day signalled the final event, the one hundred metres. One of the most popular, prestigious races in the sport of athletics, the race was the springboard for many aspiring young athletes. The young athletes rose on their haunches and leapt forward, racing along the asphalt track to the cheers of the crowd in the stadium. Johnny Faulkner, having won all his heats got off to a flying start and determined to give all he could, beat the competition and was first through the ribbon at the end of the track. A roar went up from the masters, pupils and spectators who had travelled up from Kent, as Johnny collapsed in a gasping heap on the grass at the side of the track as his friend, Anthony Barker, came in a close second.

On completion of their final term at St. Christopher's, the friends prepared to go their separate ways. Anthony Barker, as many of his ancestors before him, joined the ranks of the privileged few at Eton College, where since birth his name had been put down for entrance to the college. Johnny Faulkner won a scholarship to King's School in Canterbury, thanks to his mathematical skills. The friends still spent time together in Westcliffe during their holidays, when Johnny became infatuated with Anthony's sister, Lady Miranda, who encouraged the advances of the handsome young man. Anthony Barker showed little interest in girls, other than a platonic relationship with Johnny's sister, Catherine, which Johnny found strange as his friend had become a good-looking chap.

Both young men continued to do well in amateur athletic events around the southern counties and became accomplished sprinters, finishing in the top level of all the competitions they entered. Many thought their competitive rivalry would spur them on to even greater goals and there was talk among the higher echelons of athletic circles of them being selected for the Summer Olympic Games, to be held in Germany in 1936.

Chapter 2

The financial meltdown on Wall Street in 1929 started a worldwide economic depression that was to last throughout the thirties. Germany was hit hard as millions of Germans were still out of work following the country's humiliating defeat in the Great War, and the population lacked confidence in the weak policies of the government's politicians. The time was ripe for a new leader and Adolf Hitler and his National Socialist Workers' Party rose in popularity. Hitler was a powerful orator who attracted a wide following of Germans desperate for change and promised the disenchanted a far better life in a new and glorious Germany. In 1933, Hitler became the new Chancellor of Germany. Under his leadership, the country began re-arming and flexing its muscles in a war-like manner, with an eye turned towards winning back its former lands annexed by the war. 

Britain did not fare much better during this period, as the country was over £900 million in debt to America for war loans, which America now wanted repaid. The depression wiped out Britain's enviable worldwide investments and the coal and cotton export markets at home collapsed. Her standing in the world as a great imperial power for over 200 years diminished and unemployment soared to levels the country had never experienced before. The British government's foreign policy was one of appeasement, the pacifying of an aggrieved nation through negotiation to prevent war. The prime example of this was Britain’s policy towards Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany in the 1930s, when Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain sought to accommodate Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in 1935 by taking no action.

Many politicians in high office supported Chamberlain's policy of appeasement as the best course of action for Britain, including Lord Halifax, the Leader of the House of Lords and his good friend Lord Thomas William Barker, Chairman of Cinque Ports. Lord Barker had been spending less time in his manor house at Westcliffe on the clifftops overlooking Dover and more time at Westminster and had purchased a town house in Great Smith Street just a stone's throw away from Parliament. He had cultivated a friendship with Geoffrey Dawson, the editor of the Times newspaper and counted among his friends the American, Waldorf Astor and his wife, the politician Viscountess Nancy Astor. The Astor's often hosted their close circle of friends at their country residence, Cliveden, on the banks of the River Thames in Buckinghamshire. The Set, as they became known, began using their close political connections and the Observer newspaper, owned by Waldorf, together with The Times edited by Dawson, to influence the British government to continue its policy of appeasement with Nazi Germany.

Lord Barker, an ardent right-winger, not satisfied that this was going far enough met with similarly minded colleagues and founded a secret society whose aim was to forge stronger connections with the Nazi Party in Germany. The society's goal was to topple the British Government and replace it with a fascist dictatorship.

Chapter 3

The young friend's scholastic paths crossed again when both were offered places at Cambridge. They went up together for matriculation into their respective colleges at the start of the Michaelmas term in October 1935. Anthony Barker took a Bachelor of Arts degree in history at King's, where his father and grandfather had studied, and Johnny Faulkner took a degree in mathematics at Trinity. Johnny was told by his father he would have to choose and pursue a satisfactory career to secure his future and a degree would be a major step forward in that direction. Johnny realised his love and active participation in athletics would have to take second place to his academic future.

Jenkins the chauffeur drove them to Cambridge in Lord Barker's Rolls Royce, loaded with all the paraphernalia obligatory to sustain university life. That which had not fitted into the boot for the journey was strapped precariously on the rear luggage carrier. Arriving at the entrance to Trinity College, Jenkins braked the Rolls smoothly to a halt. They all climbed out of the car and as the chauffeur started to unload Johnny's luggage, the young men stood on the path admiring the outstanding Tudor-Gothic style of the college buildings.

'Well, old man, this is it.' said Anthony.

'Let's catch up at the freshman's fair at the weekend.'

'What time do you want to meet there?' enquired Johnny.

'How about ten o'clock and we can swop our experiences of the first week.'

'You're on. Good luck!' replied Johnny and shook his friend's hand.

'Good luck to you too!' replied Anthony.

Throwing a rucksack over his shoulder, Johnny picked up his suitcases and with a tennis racket gripped under his arm walked up the path to the college. Behind him, the Rolls started up and glided away as he gave a backwards wave to his friend. At the Great Gate entrance to Trinity, he stopped to glance up at a statue of the founder of the college, Henry VIII, standing in a niche above the doorway. Johnny did a double take, as the statue appeared to be holding a table leg instead, as would have been more usual, a sword. Shaking his head in amusement, he felt sure he would like it here.

Entering the porters' lodge, he came across a jovial looking man seated behind a high counter with a polished mahogany top. Dropping his bags on the floor, he noted the walls on his side of the counter covered with pigeon holes filled with letters and parcels. The wall behind was filled with bundles of keys dangling from their hooks. Never had he seen so many keys in one place before.

'Good afternoon, young sir! And what can I do for you today?' asked the porter in a friendly manner, peering over his glasses and sticking a tentative thumb in the pocket of his waistcoat.

'Good afternoon. It's my first term at Trinity.' replied Johnny.

'And what's your name?

'Faulkner.'

The porter ran a finger down the list of names in the open admissions ledger on the counter top. 

'Ah, here we are. Faulkner, J. R.' He looked up, picked up a pen and offered it to the young man. 'Sign here please.'

Johnny took the pen and scrawled his signature beside his name on the register.

'Your room's number twenty three, go through the Great Court behind here, turn right at the top of the stairs and it's on the right.'

'Thank you. What's your name?' enquired Johnny.

'Matthews, sir and welcome to Trinity, Mr. Faulkner.' said the porter with a friendly smile.

'Is there anything else I can help you with today?' 

'Yes, there is. That statue outside, why's it holding a table leg?'

'Oh, that was there before I started working here, which is quite a few years ago now! A good many myths abound as to how the switch was done and by whom!' informed Matthews. 

'Perhaps someone ought to shake a leg and table a motion to get the mystery solved!' joked Johnny.

'Very funny, sir, but perhaps they can't table anything because they haven't got a leg to stand on!' retorted Matthews, laughing.

Johnny chuckled and picked up his gear. 'I think you've turned the tables on me, Mr. Matthews.'

'Then maybe you ought to leg it while the goings still good, young sir!' retorted the porter with mirth.

'Me' thinks I'd better inform my colleagues about you and your wit, Mr Faulkner. I reckon you're a wag and we'd better be keeping tabs on you.' said Matthews with a twinkle in his eye.

A short distance away Jenkins halted the Rolls Royce in King's Parade. Anthony Barker got out and impatiently waited for the chauffeur to gather up his luggage. With Jenkins struggling behind he strode up to the gatehouse of Kings College and walked into the gloomy interior porter's lodge. A tall, portly figure wearing a top hat stood behind a long desk beside a shorter man wearing an ordinary bowler.

'Name?' snapped the portly figure.

'I'm new here.' replied Anthony.

'Yes, laddie, I can see that. What's your name?

'Lord Anthony Barker.'

'Welcome to Kings, young sir, sign here.' ordered the porter and turned a ledger round with a list of names.

'What is your name?' enquired Anthony as he signed the ledger.

'Mr McIlroy, I'm the head porter and this is my assistant, Mr. Jones.'

'Well,