Chapter 25: The Box Office

The seat of the Mother of Parliaments is a veritable warren of corridors, passageways, offices, stairways, meeting halls, debating chambers, and banqueting rooms. Members of the House of Commons sit in the former St. Stephen’s Chapel in the middle of the old Palace of Westminster, almost directly behind Westminster Abbey, but on the river side of the Old Palace Yard, whilst peers, members of the House of Lords, meet in the White Chamber near the south end.
How the attendant accompanying me to room 101 navigated his way around this maze was a mystery; surely, he must have been born in this tangle of passages to know them so well. As if reading my mind the fellow grinned as he led me, Orpheus-like, through the Underworld.

“They say one inebriated Member of Parliament once wandered off down a passage looking for the jakes, and never found his way back to the debating chamber. His body is still down in some rarely used corridor – or so the story goes.”

“You don’t believe the tale?”

“No sir. If every sozzled Member of Parliament did the same then the place would be stacked high with bodies. Anyway, MPs don’t bother going to the jakes to relieve themselves – they just dumps on the folks what elected them!”
He guffawed at his jest, which I suppose all the workers in the palace would tell visitors.

“‘Ere we are, Sir.” He pointed to a door with only the number ‘101’ distinguishing it from the doors of the other offices along the passageway, which accommodated the clerks and accountants of the Treasury.
The corridor was painted in the less than prepossessing colours of Burnt Umber and Eau de Nile, and all the office doors a Deep Brunswick Green.
The effect was both depressing and nauseous, and I thanked G — no, not that figment of imagination but rather fate, I was not one of the living-dead quill pushers trapped behind those doors.

“I’ll wait ‘ere for you, sir. I doubt you could find your way back to the entrance?”
I agreed with him, straightened my tunic, and knocked on the door.

On ‘Come in’ I entered the room, to find Sir Boris Crossley seated behind a desk strewn with paper work.

“Hello Greeny.” He got from his chair, and shook my hand with his accustomed vigour. “Welcome to the Relocation Bureau. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I will dismiss the fellow who showed you the way here as I shall accompany you when we leave later this afternoon.”
He went to the door, and I heard him speakto my guide.
I sat down, bewildered as to why I had been reassigned, and if my over-payment had been overlooked. Sir Boris re-entered the office and sat back at his desk.

“I have been assigned to go to Italy and train Greeks. Has my mission been cancelled?”

“Not at all, my dear fellow. Your task in Italy is the reason you have been posted to the Relocation Bureau on temporary attachment. In fact, rather than you being a relocatee you are actually a relocator.”
He chuckled at my bemused expression. “Of course, you do not know what the Relocation Bureau does – have you ever heard mention of us?”

“I vaguely remember John Stafford saying the office relocates important people to different positions in government, but he gave no details.”

“Just as well he did not for I would have had to kill him, which would have upset my sister, and caused a measure of disharmony in the family.”

I took his remark as a joke, in poor taste admittedly, but a joke nevertheless.
Sir Boris fixed me with a stern, penetrating, gaze, and the bluff, buffoon- like persona he cultivated disappeared.

“Occasionally, in order to maintain the Peace of the Realm, certain deeds are carried out on behalf of His Majesty’s Government which are not strictly within the laws of the land.” He paused, as if searching for the pertinent phraseology. “There are some high placed individuals in Society, who, if brought to public trial for their crimes, would cause the citizens of the Kingdom to become disenchanted with the ruling class, with all the consequences which could result from their disillusionment. Revolution — rebellion — and, God forbid, republicanism. To save the realm from the threat of such a dire calamity the Relocation Bureau — relocates — these problem people. They disappear, become extinct, shuffle off this mortal coil, and in fact become ex-problem people.”

“They are assassinated,” I interjected angrily. “I am no murderer, or hired killer, Sir Boris.”

“They meet with judicial accidents, Colonel. The bureau does not employ murderers but officers of His Majesty’s army. And you have killed before.”

“Yes, but only in the execution of my duty.”

Sir Boris’s smile was that of a shark.”Exactly; and in relocating treasonable and corrupt members of the aristocracy you will be carrying out your duty.”

He had me there, and I sighed in stoical capitulation.
He saw I was resigned to my new duty and leaned across the desk to shake my hand, his grip as firm as the expression on his face.

“The fellow who needs to be ‘boxed’ is presently in Italy.”
He noted my puzzlement, and explained. “The bureau is known to its members as the Box Office, as that is where all realocatees end up, in a coffin shaped box. I intended Captain Keane for the job, but he has a relocation to carryout in Ireland – he does most of the Irish boxings – then I learned you were going to Leghorn, and knew you would be the ideal replacement.”

“There is a Captain Callum Keane who works for MI5.”

“Yes, that’s the chap.’ Kill ‘em Clean’ I call him; the fellow is an artist. He saw to Wycombe’s boxing. The coroner noted it as a hunting accident, but Wycombe’s neck was broken before he fell off his horse.”

I wondered if ‘Kill ‘em Clean’ was the ‘nice Irishman’ who had questioned John Bailey in Hungerford. A few days after his interrogation John Bailey was found in Hungerford Lock with a broken neck.

Boris opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a framed lithograph, which he pushed across the desk to me.

“This is the man we want you to box...”

“Percy Shelley!” My voice rose in surprise when I laid eyes on the portrait.

“You are acquainted with the fellow?”

“My sister travelled to Italy with him and his family. The last time I saw him I threatened to cut off his nugs if he did not guard her reputation and wellbeing, which he has singularly failed to do.”

“Well, you cannot simply walk up to him and cut off his testicles – certainly not in broad daylight. No department of government recognises, or claims jurisdiction over the Box Office, and anyone who makes a botch of a boxing has to face the consequences. Mistakes in England can sometimes be covered up, but not overseas, where any murder investigation would be out of our hands.” He shook his head sadly. “We will have to forget you carrying out Shelley’s boxing. After your warning he would be wary if you showed up on his doorstep, and if he told his wife of your threat she would be the first to point the finger at you should he turn up dead.” He pursed his lips in annoyance. “I will have to wait for Kill ‘em Clean to become available, but in the meantime you can keep tabs on Shelley.”

“I understood it was those members of the ruling class who committed treason, or engaged in corruptive practises, who were ‘boxed’? Shelley is a poet; why does he require, err, relocating?”

Boris rubbed his chin. “I have no idea. The Select Committee decides who are relocated. Maybe Fat George dislikes his poetry, although the official reason is Shelley’s radical writings are stirring up the working class in the factories of northern England.”

“I know Shelley is a radical, but he’s in Italy – he cannot do much stirring of the workers from there.”

“That’s where you are wrong, Greeny. Shelley is writing his inflammatory prose and poetry while living snugly, and smugly, in Italy, then having it published in England. He has ignored warnings regarding his behaviour, and his ‘boxing’ is to alert others of his ilk who might wish to emulate him.” He saw me framing a question. “Yes, his death will appear to be an accident, but rumours of a premeditated killing will be circulating among his radical poet and writer chums. ‘Pour encourager les autres I suppose.” He grinned. “Or rather to discourage others with similar views to Shelley expressing them in print.” He pointed to the lithograph. “Anyway, Percy is in Pisa...”