Here’s an excerpt from chapter 2 of my 2013 novel, Smoke. The scene takes place on a street in London, in the Haymarket district, May 12, 1937, the coronation day for King George VI.
The policeman asked Nathan if there was anything else he had noticed about the deceased.
“He handed this to me,” said Nathan, “even as he was falling to the ground.” It was a folded white paper, with this handwritten message largely scrawled in black ink:
Wallris —
John Bull’s ransom will smoke out the black shirts tomorrow. If not, your bridge could burn. Chapman
The bobby, raising his eyebrows, looked up at Nathan. “Mr., uh…, your name sir?”
“Nathan Wachov, of Islington.”
“Mr. Wachov, did the gentleman, Mr. Wallris, did he display any signs of struggle?”
“He was struggling to stay on his feet, sir, but was incapable of it. He was losing strength rapidly when I went to his aid.”
“Did his death appear to you to be, ah…natural?”
“He was gasping for air, and mucous was dripping from his mouth. I don’t know; I’ve never had anyone die in my arms before now.”
“Gasping?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t you say that would be a natural response of anyone who is taking his last breaths?”
“Yes. Quite so.” The policeman looked down at the body again. “I’ll need to take this note, you know. Since this incident has resulted in a death, I’ll need to retain any items that could be evidence.”
“Evidence… of what? He gave it to me.”
“While he may have handed it to you, that doesn’t mean he gave it to you for keeping. This is routine procedure, I assure you, Mr. Wachov, in such a case as this.”
“Certainly, do your duty, sir.”
A crowd of people stood and stared.
Two medics arrived with a gurney. Officer Morley began to facilitate their task of removing the body. “Stand aside, now,” he commanded to the onlookers,” raising his arms to shoo them away. “Move along now. We’ve a new king to crown today. Better get on with it.”
Stepping aside, Philip looked quizzically at Nathan. He was curious about the note. “Black shirts?”
“Fascist renegades,” replied Nathan . . .
