Free The Dead Can Wait by Robert Ryan

shouldn’t take an analogy too far, eh? But it is relevant in one sense. We intend to strike terror into the enemy in ways they could never have dreamed of. Which is why you are here, Watson. Now, I apologize about all the subterfuge—’
    ‘I have one question first.’
    Churchill, who had already drawn breath, ready for one of his legendary orations, albeit to an audience of one, squinted at him. ‘What is it?’
    From his inside pocket, Watson drew the summons from Holmes. ‘Why are you sending me letters purporting to be from Sherlock Holmes?’ he said, unable to keep the anger from his voice.
    ‘Purporting?’ Churchill repeated cagily.
    Watson held up the summons. ‘This, Mr Churchill, is a blatant forgery.’
    Donal Coyle knew his days as an agent of the British Crown were numbered. He had always been an anomaly in the Bureau, a mongrel, tossed into its ranks because no respectable gentleman would want to become a spy. The SSB/MI5 took what it could get, even if it was a disillusioned Fenian. But those days were over. Gentlemen willingly embarked on all kinds of underhand pursuits now in the defence of the realm. And with events in Ireland taking place, more than ever he was suspect, simply because of his accent.
    Coyle knew where his loyalty lay. Well, it lay mainly with his friend Harry Gibson, but also to the department that had given him a home. And to England?
    He was no longer so sure.
    The Irishman lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, next to the Purdey shop and just at the rear of the parked Deasy. He stood out here in these streets, with his rough suit and cheap hat. Spies rarely worked in Mayfair. He was dressed for the gutter. It was where he did his best work. There were others, like Langdale Pike, who patrolled the upper echelons for Kell and Co.
    Of course, it wasn’t just the uprising that had caused him to reassess his position. There had been the letter from his ma, sent through to the secure PO box the service used, telling him that her eyes were going: ‘I had to get Marie Coughlan to read your last one to me. They say it’s the cataracts . . .’
    Perhaps the prodigal son ought to return and help out, see if there was something they could do. His brother was away in America, his sister married and in Cork, and now his mother was relying on neighbours like Marie Coughlan. The cataracts. Her world must be fogging.
    Coyle scanned the street, casually watching each car and wagon drive by, while at the same time noting the occupants. So far, nothing had come by twice. Not that there was any reason to expect any trouble. Which was when he expected it most.
    He was armed with two pistols. The largest was in his belt — one advantage of a sloppily cut jacket was that it hid a multitude of sins – the other was a small revolver, good enough for close work, in a special leather contraption in his sock. Experience had told him that it was the easiest, fastest positioning for a pistol when driving or as a passenger in a car. It had saved his life twice.
    How would he break the news of his return to Ireland to Harry? They had been together for four years now. And they made a very good team. The oldest in the SSB. But Coyle thought it was time to go home and be among his own people. The ripples from the uprising were still spreading out, agitating the populace. Even those who didn’t believe in the armed struggle felt the subsequent executions were cruel and arbitrary. There might be a way to harness that unrest in a more peaceful way than armed insurrection. True, there were people back there who might want him dead but he knew that at least three of them had themselves left this world. He had sent out a few tentative overtures, through his Uncle Sean and—
    Black four-seat Shelsey on a Crossley chassis.
    The phrase popped into his head, even before he realized what he was looking at.
    Puttering beyond the horse-drawn delivery van making its way along the street was a black four-seat